“Oy.” We grab matching carts and begin to peruse the most perfect stack of Honeycrisps. Each one is the size of a softball and they easily weigh one and a half pounds. We both murmur in admiration while we stuff them in plastic produce bags.
“Yep. Hey, speaking of—sometimes my mother would take the thing my father dreamed about all year, her one home-run swing, the apple pie—and she’d substitute zucchini instead. Just because. Ask me how well that went over. I mean, I appreciate her looking out for my father’s health, but it’s one freaking dinner over the course of three hundred and sixty-five days. Hey, how about we don’t make it a fat-free Thanksgiving? I’m not saying she was all Joan Crawford because that’s certainly not the case, but believe me when I say I never looked forward to any holiday.”
Stacey pats me on the arm as we wend our way past the fancy lettuce display. “Then? Every meal ended in recriminations when we’d make my mother angry by accusing her of hiding the butter and emptying all the saltshakers and filling them with No Salt. Which, of course, she did. By the way? When you put Smart Balance HeartRight Light Spread on mashed potatoes? I totally can believe it’s not butter. Passive aggression; it’s what’s for dinner.”
Stacey stops in front of the fresh-cut fruit fridge. “Oh, peanut, I’m sorry.”
“It is what it is.” I shrug. “I mean, I’m not all scarred and I don’t need therapy or anything. It’s just that the idea of going over the river and through the woods? Holds no appeal.”
“What about Fletch?”
“Ironically, our traditions were a step up for him. At least we had James Bond. Poor Fletch used to get stuck in the mountains of Virginia with no television and his grandmother would boil a chicken for Thanksgiving dinner. She’d serve the big, flaccid, gray mass of meat and say, ‘Let’s eat and get it over with already.’ So when we’re all A Christmas Story and order Chinese this year, don’t feel sorry for us because we’re going to have the best non-Thanksgiving Thanksgiving ever.”
Stacey furrows her brow while debating pineapple chunks or rings. Then, after a few seconds she says, “No.”
“No pineapple?”
Stacey bangs on her shopping cart. “No. No, no. You need to celebrate Thanksgiving.”
“What part of my I hate the holidays diatribe did you not understand?”
“You don’t hate Thanksgiving. You hate conflict. You hate bad food. You hate chaos. Thanksgiving is inherently happy. No one hates Thanksgiving.” She stops herself. “Well, Native Americans maybe. Point is you can’t not be happy on a day where pie figures in so prominently. What you need to do is reclaim Thanksgiving. You need to flip the script.”
“We tried that last year and it was lame.”
“Because it was just the two of you. This year, you invite guests.”
I protest, “Who’s going to come? Everyone always has Thanksgiving plans.”
“Yeah, miserable plans. I can, in fact, believe it’s not butter plans. Plans they’re dreading because they never had your awesome Thanksgiving Day dinner as an option before. Start asking around. You’ll be surprised at how many people would rather go to your house. I’m telling you, flip the script.”
“But—”
“Flip it.”
“I can’t—”
“Flip. It.”
We’re still debating when we run into our dear friend Gina. She spots us from her table on the second floor where she’s having lunch when she hears the familiar sound of us squabbling.
“Gina, settle an argument for me,” I say. “No one would come to my house on Thanksgiving, right?”
Gina cocks her head. “Why not?”
“Because they have plans. Like you. Where will you be on Thanksgiving?”
“Probably in my house, drinking wine, ignoring the day so I don’t have to be with my annoying relatives,” she replies.
“Aha!” Stacey crows. “This is what I’m talking about. If Jen had a Thanksgiving Day dinner, would you come?”
Without hesitation, Gina replies, “Absolutely! I’d much rather drink wine at your house.”
Stacey turns to me. “Told you so.”
I admit it, I like the idea of flipping the script, but the actuality of it may be too much for me to handle. “I panic when I have to cook for more than three people. Remember my dinner party this summer where half the guests never even got fed before they had to leave and I accidentally got hammered?”
Gina helpfully adds, “If I recall, the problem was more that you got hammered and forgot to start dinner. Those cocktails were delicious, though.” I mixed equal parts of passion fruit juice, elderflower liqueur, Prosecco, and Stoli Razberi and all the girls slammed them like Gatorade on a hot day. [Primarily because I forgot to tell everyone I included a bottle of vodka.] Eventually Fletch had to step in to work the grill because he thought we were all so soaked in alcohol that we’d ignite if we got too close.
You see, I’ve become a bit of a mixologist—or, according to Fletch, I’m the Queen of the Girl Drunk Drinks. When we started dating, I drank Johnnie Walker Black and soda. Now when we go out, I’m all, “What do you have with lychee nuts in it?” To me? This is not a bad thing. I mean, I don’t do shots anymore because I hate how they make me feel in the morning. Coincidentally, this is also why I no longer eat Lucky Charms for dinner. Much as I enjoyed both acts, I haven’t the liver or the stomach of a college kid anymore.
Stacey waves away my protests. “When we get home, I’ll send you my Thanksgiving time and action plan. My plan contains everything you need to do from start to finish, so the whole thing is foolproof. No worries.”
“Does this mean we’re having Thanksgiving at your house, Jen?” Gina asks.
“Um…” I stammer.
“Yes,” Stacey replies. “This year Jen learns to flip the script. Now, I think we have some shopping to
