Mess by Molly

“I’ve decided we’re doing a fat-free Thanksgiving dinner this year,” my 45-year-old tennis coach mom confidently announced as she opened the beeping microwave and extracted one of the steaming hot baked potatoes we were eating as the main course for dinner. 

“Ewwwww,” moaned my 13-year-old younger sister Erin, “gross,” she said slurping on her lemonade Snapple. 

“It will be soooo fun,” mom gushed flouncing around in her itty-bitty tennis skirt like a brunette Barbie.  The irony of her glamorous style was not lost on my sister and me.  She spent hours of her day to ensure the scale never topped 115 pounds, yet rabidly preached the evils of the patriarchy.   Our begging to become cheerleaders had resulted in a resounding no from her, “The boys will cheer for you not the other way around,” she preached, “If you want to wear a short skirt outside, it will only be for tennis.”  

 “We all hate Thanksgiving dinner anyway,” she proclaimed, “especially those awful sweet potatoes with marshmallows and that 24-hour mayonnaise salad.  That food is terrible for your father who is on his diet to lose 100 pounds.”  

My sister and I exchanged surreptitious glances.  Once my mom initiated a project, there was no stopping her.  She had the perseverance of a woodpecker chipping away at a tree.  This meal would come to fruition whether we liked it or not. 

This was 1991 when I was 15 and fat-free, low-calorie snacks were all the rage.  Our pantry was filled with 100 calorie cookie packs, non-fat yogurt, sugar-free Jell-O, and all other manner of highly processed nutrient deficient foods. 

“I have already been looking at magazines for inspiration,” mom trilled, “we will skip the stuffing all together and instead of mashed potatoes which are SOOOO fatty, we will boil up leeks and cauliflower, blend em, and POOF exactly the same.   We will steam the green beans, eat only the white meat of the turkey roasted in its own juices and make fat free gravy.  And the best part is that I found a recipe for fat-free cheesecake.  The only thing is that we need to buy a cheesecloth because we are going to turn fat-free yogurt into cream cheese in the refrigerator.”

“But mashed potatoes are the only thing we love about Thanksgiving,” my sister protested. 

“Get with it,” my mom retorted her voice escalating, “I assure you it will be far better than what was served at your aunts last year.

The days leading up to Thanksgiving were anxiety inducing.  Using a cheesecloth is not something that was done in our household.  In fact, when using it for the first time, my mom used the F word relentlessly. Swearing, unlike the cheesecloth, was a tool often used at home. 

Dressed to the nines, my mom flipped a switch when our relatives arrived. “Hello,” she cooed, in her best Stepford wives welcoming voice, “come on in and make yourselves at home.”

When it came time for us to sit down for dinner, my mother proudly presented her feast resplendent as a peacock showcasing the merits of each calorie free dish.  After the food was served, I looked around the table at peoples’ plates filled with meager helpings reminiscent of childhood when three chicken nuggets and one piece of broccoli constituted a meal.  There were side eyed glances around the table as my mom expounded upon her process for the mashed leeks and cauliflower which smelled like urine. 

My mom could sense some uneasiness, so she turned to her favorite Thanksgiving pastime, “Let’s all go around the table and say one thing we’re thankful for.  I’ll start.  I’m grateful that all of you are here today celebrating this healthy California cuisine.  Molly now you go,”

The teenager in me couldn’t stop myself, “I’m thankful that I don’t have to see the yogurt sitting in the fridge anymore on top of the cheesecloth as it looked like cellulite.” 

Erin chimed in, “I’m thankful Auntie P. is here because she always does the dishes since she doesn’t like talking to other people.” 

Everyone chuckled and my sister gave my Aunt a knowing smile. 

My dad said, “Well, I for one, am thrilled that we’re not eating any of the dark meat, because I’ve got it waiting for me in the fridge to eat as leftovers tomorrow.”

My mom’s face turned redder as we all took a piss at her expense.   Just then the doorbell chimed.  It was my Aunt S.  

“So sorry we’re late,” Aunt S said with her warm homey voice. She was by far the most nurturing of all my aunts, “You know how Uncle D loves his Vikings. We had to finish watching the game before we could come.  The good news is I brought my 24-hour salad and Erin’s favorite mashed potatoes.  When she called and said you weren’t making her those, I couldn’t let a growing girl starve.”

The table erupted into cheers rooting these oncoming Viking pilgrims to victory in this forlorn fat-free wasteland.  Oh butter, oh cream, oh salt, oh blessed Midwestern pilgrims, we are grateful for you.