Thanksgiving column

Happy Holidays, Everyone!

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Tomorrow my husband and I will host about a dozen relatives for Thanksgiving.

I feel fairly prepared. The shopping is done. The card table has been pulled from the garage. My Thanksgiving decorations, consisting of a tan table runner and a stuffed turkey, have been retrieved and displayed — to the consternation of my husband, who has said more than once this week, “Where did we get that velvet turkey and why is it on our table?”

Oddly enough, I’m not anxious about preparing the meal. Instead, my big worry is that something will get spilled on my new carpet. Which is silly. I mean, we’ve got to get that first stain sometime. It might as well be when the cranberries slide off my son’s plate and splatter a three-feet circle onto the floor. Or at least that’s how it plays out in my recurring dream.

I should really be more concerned about the turkey. I don’t have a good track record with that bird.
How hard can it be, right? Well, let me see.

There was that first Thanksgiving when I decided to surprise and impress my new husband by making an authentic Thanksgiving dinner for two.

I had cranberries, corn and stuffing. I had enough potatoes to feed our entire apartment building. I had a 12-pound turkey.

And I had no idea what I was doing. I turned to Betty Crocker — and, in reviewing the instructions for “roasting poultry,” I couldn’t believe my eyes. I even called my aunt to confirm, to my horror, that I REALLY HAD TO STICK MY HAND INSIDE THAT BIRD.

“Isn’t there another way?” I pleaded. “Can’t I just run water down its neck?”

Apparently not. According to Aunt Holly, I didn’t just have to stick my hand inside the body cavity of a dead bird — I had to scrub aforementioned cavity, rub it with butter and sprinkle it with salt.

It took me so long to complete her instructions (while repeatedly succumbing to my gag reflex) that we didn’t eat until 8 p.m. I remember that day fondly as the “Thanksgiving I Almost Became A Vegetarian.”

Then there was our first Thanksgiving in our first house. Everything was going fine until it was time to put the turkey in the preheated oven and I realized I forgot to take out the middle oven rack.

My husband, the brave and burly man he is, volunteered to remove the 350-degree shelf and set it outside. He was repaid by the rack swiveling in his oven mitt and clinging to his forearm as his skin sizzled like bacon. The resulting burn mark lasted nearly to the next Thanksgiving.

And it was that Thanksgiving, apparently, that I was responsible for the feast none of my family will let me live down. And though I absolutely do not remember this, both my sisters, my mother and my husband swear that I left the giblet bag – seared brown and filled with roasted turkey parts – inside the turkey. They claim it was discovered upon carving.

I’ve either blacked this out or they’ve concocted the story to make me think I’m losing my mind. Either way, I’m going to be careful this year. And maybe, just maybe, make a ham. As back-up.

Latest column: The Today Show

I turned 35 last week. To commemorate the day I’d be as close to 40 as 30 (while still feeling 20), I wanted to make a grand gesture. I wanted to celebrate in New York City — waving a sign on the Today Show.

My husband, not so much.

I mean, he was happy when my parents agreed to watch the boys so we could get away. And he’s as big a fan of NYC as I am. That said, his ideal vacation does not include getting up before dawn to stand in line to watch the news.
But it was my birthday, not his — so he let me be the travel planner.

“OK, how early do we get up?” Jay asked Sunday night as he grabbed the hotel alarm clock.

“5 a.m.,” I answer.

He raises an eyebrow. “What time does the show start?”

“7.”

“And isn’t it just four blocks away?”

“Yes.”

He stares, but says nothing.

“We have to go early to get in line.”

Still nothing.

“To get a good spot.”

He sets the alarm.

But I don’t need it. I wake at 4:44 a.m. – my internal clock ringing with anticipation.

By the time Jay wakes up, I’m tying a sweater around my waist and reaching for my coat.

Groggy, but a good sport, Jay accompanies me on the dark streets to Rockefeller Center, where the Today Show is taped. I’m practically skipping.

As we approach the studio, we see two men in official-looking coats setting up the outdoor plaza. They tell us the line starts around the corner. We turn and… we’re alone.

“We’re first!” I yell. “We’re going to be on TV!”

“It’s a good thing we got here so early,” Jay deadpans. And then drops it. Because it’s my birthday.

At 6:40, with the line stretching down the street, it’s time. The men in the coats corral us into the fence-lined plaza — where we’ll scream and yell and generally embarrass ourselves for the cameras. I hold my sign (“TODAY I’m 35!”) and check out the competition.

With the New York City marathon held the day before, there’s plenty. On the left: “I ran the NYC marathon on my 50th Birthday!” To our right: “Toenails are for whimps!”

As the show starts, a cameraman shoots the crowd, but misses us. Ten minutes later, Al comes out for the first check of the weather. Still nothing.

The woman standing next to us — a marathoner with a southern drawl — gets on her phone. “I just saw Al,” she screams into the receiver. “He’s short!”

Twenty minutes later, the crowd goes wild as Matt, Meredith and Al come out. The trifecta. They circle the crowd and then position themselves directly in front of us.

The southern marathon lady hits redial on her phone. “I’m right behind Matt!” she shouts over the crowd. “He’s short.”

The camera pans, then stops. We’re on. I cheer. I wave my sign. I revel in the moment.

We don’t leave until 9:30. My parents call as we exit Rockefeller Center. “Did you see us?” I exclaim, full of hope.

“We saw Jay!” my mom says. “He was right between Matt and Meredith for the longest time.”

“What about me?” I ask. “Did you see my sign?”

“We kind of saw you…” she offers. “When Meredith would lean a bit.”

I was crushed. But not for long. By the time we reached the hotel, I was planning my next trip — and my next sign. Next time I’ll use glitter.