Thanks, But No Thanks

If you've ever been accused of looking at the world through rose-colored glasses a little too often, you'll understand when I say that so many meals always seem better in anticipation and in memory than they do while they're in progress. Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners are good examples of this phenomenon. In fact, I'm already looking at the cover of Bon Apetite's Thanksgiving issue, mental chef's hat pulled firmly on, imagining how easily the meat will fall under the sliding knife, how the potatoes will be creamed just so, the parsnips roasted to sweet, understated perfection, the carrots like pasta al dente - still with enough of a bite, and the desserts, oh, the desserts! The glorious array of homemade-made-from-scratch-from-an-ancestor's recipe pecan and pumpkin and apple pies.

The reality, of course, will be nothing like this at all.

To start with, I'm British and therefore not technically encompassed by the holiday (though now that I have lived here long enough to acquire citizenship this is, indeed, a mere technicality). Second, however, is the small fact that because I'm British, I don't actually have pecan and pumpkin and apple pie recipes passed down from my own mother - let alone any stalwart grandmothers or great grandmothers - so I'm on my own in that department. And third, I'm not even entirely sure where I'll be spending Thanksgiving this year -- so planning a menu is a little bit of a stretch.

But no matter where I spend the holiday, one thing is relatively certain. Thanksgiving is simply one of those meals that (much like holidays themselves) builds in one's imagination throughout the year, spurred on by the early arrival of the November issues of the aforementioned Bon Apetite, Martha Stewart Living, Gourmet, Real Simple, even Oprah (word is she cooks a mean corn fritter, by the way).

And this year - as with every other year - the more I gaze adoringly at that immaculately golden-skinned turkey dressed to perfection on the cover of Bon Apetite, the more I begin to believe that I too could pull of the kind of holiday meal usually reserved for Food Network specials and the pages of J. Crew's fall catalogue. That my friends and family will gather at my table wearing coordinating chinos, tie belts, wool skirts and cashmere sweaters adorned with little brooches. That each and every dish will be prepared and on the table at the same time at the same temperature. That the meat won't be too dry or the sweet potato casserole too sweet. That the bottle of wine will have been fortuitously opened exactly at its peak and there'll be just enough leftovers - but not too many.

Yes, this is the meal I believe I can create. Not just at Thanksgiving, for that matter, but year-round - you know, for dinner parties, brunches, those "quick weeknight dinners with friends" that Nigella and Jamie and Ina are so fond of writing about. In short, I will be the living, breathing, support-staff-free embodiment of all these celeb chefs combined. My name will be synonymous with gatherings pulled from the pages of Gourmet and Food and Wine! My food will be lauded by all who taste it! I will live in a state of glorious perfection!

Or perhaps not. If I am honest, the thought of working to pull off a meal like that (a feat I've attempted on numerous occasions) is certainly enjoyable (I'm a cook, after all) but it's also grueling, hard on the blood pressure and not, as it turns out, entirely necessary. After all, my parents and friends don't care if the greens are a minute late hitting the table, and while they might make a comment about the turkey if it's dry, they're certainly not going to criticize me for refusing to match my skirt with their chinos or forgetting to chill the wine let alone open it. And while good food and good presentation go hand in hand, I'm pretty sure that when given the choice, they'd rather enjoy a few extra minutes with me than a few extra seconds admiring my stacked plating technique.

And as far as the pecan pie, well, my mother buys that at the Fresh Market.