My husband asked me recently what my favorite holiday is.
I thought for a few seconds, then answered, "Thanksgiving. It's like Christmas without the stress."
I love the goodwill and coziness of Thanksgiving… and, yes, the food. Oh, the food. I love the aroma of a turkey in the oven and hot cider on the stovetop. I love the sound of simmering sauces. I love being busy all day buttering lefse and slicing cranberries (my son only likes the can-molded kind), and pouring pumpkin pie into its crust.
These are the foods I grew up with — the foods I'll eat. This is a big deal. Because I am a picky, picky eater. Growing up in northern Minnesota, the foods of my youth centered around grilled cheese sandwiches, buttered noodles, and hot dish (i.e. 1 pound of cooked hamburger + 1 can of whatever vegetable was in the pantry + 1 can tomato soup or cream-of-something soup, all topped with shredded cheese and/or crumbled soda crackers). None of these meals is what you might consider a flavor explosion.
Yet, these are still my favorite meals. When I'm feeling really edgy, I might roast up some asparagus or add rosemary to my potatoes. But to this day, when I go out for lunch, I order grilled cheese sandwiches 95-percent of the time.
On the other hand, here's a sampling of what I won't eat:
* Anything with raw onions bigger than the size of tic tacs
* Mushrooms
* Cauliflower (This includes the "mashed potatoes" I tried that one time that were really pureed cauliflower.)
* Radishes
* Brats, polish sausage, hot dogs and any other cylindrical meat in casings with questionable ingredients
* Anything containing jalapeno, habenero, or banana peppers
* Any other peppers I didn't list above (My husband jokes that mashed potatoes are too spicy for me.)
When I do the cooking at my house — no matter what I cook, no matter how flavorful I think it is — my husband adds Tabasco.
"You didn't even try it first," I'll say.
"I don't need to try it," he'll answer, giving the bottle a few more vigorous shakes.
"It might have really good flavor," I'll argue. "Now you'll never know."
"It still has good flavor," he'll say, finally trying a bite. "See? I like it."
Before our friends Sara and Mitch ditched us for Green Bay (not that I'm bitter), our families used to get together frequently for dinner. Because Sara knew me so well, she'd call about the menu before meals at their house. "Would you eat a dip that contained corned beef?" she'd say. Or, "How about apricot jelly? Would you eat something made with apricot jelly?"
As soon as we were sitting at her table, though, she'd clam up. If I asked about a recipe's ingredients, she'd say, "Just try it. You'll like it if you don't know what it is."
Which only made things worse. I'd try the tiniest drop off the corner of my fork.
"Well…?" she'd ask.
"I don't know yet," I'd say. "Tell me what's in it first."
"Mushrooms!" she'd yell, as if she'd managed a coup. "You ate mushrooms!"
She made me eat seaweed crackers once. I agreed to try one as long as my son did, too. Christian and I held the green, paper-thin crackers to our faces and sniffed. We scrunched our noses. We looked at each other.
"Let's pretend it's Fear Factor," I said. We counted to three and put the crackers in our mouths. We chewed. We swallowed. Christian downed his juice box while I pretended to be brave. "It's not horrible," I said. But I lied. It was horrible.
On Thanksgiving, there are no seaweed crackers. No pureed cauliflower mashed potatoes. And the only mushrooms are in my grandma's wild rice recipe — with pieces so big I can easily pick them out. It's peaceful eating for everyone. On Thanksgiving, my husband doesn't even take out the Tabasco.
