Giving Thanks

So it's over. Round one of this year's Holiday Showdown. There is so much I could say about Thanksgiving. About this year's version, I'll leave it at this: I wasn't looking forward to it, and it wasn't nearly so bad as I'd feared. Not that I don't have lots to be thankful for. Health, loving husband, a house I can still afford. There's lots of good stuff on my plate. But this year, for the first time in many, I chafed under the unwelcome weight of family obligation.

We'd been free for so long. As bakers, my husband and I always had a ready escape card for Thanksgiving travel. (Anyone in food service will tell you, the holidays are crunch time, as if the entire year is a cross country course, and Thanksgiving is that one really big killer hill.) I thought I'd had enough of it. I thought I wanted the 9-5 job. I was wrong. I miss the weeklong overnight shifts, laying strips of hand rolled pastry lattice on tray after tray of full sized cherry pies, or whipping 32 quarts of cream for that next massive batch of pumpkin mousse. There's nothing like the smell of microwaved Bourbon at 4:35 a.m. Or the feeling you get when you find the lone half-sheet carrot cake order that somehow got snuck in past the order deadline. Or the giddiness of lurching out the door at dawn, splattered with sugary goop, and heading out to breakfast at the 24-hour diner before a welcome shower and a warm bed. In the golden glow of hindsight, all of that was fun. (Like childbirth, I forget the pain of whiny, demanding customers, the endless crowds, the inevitable burns, like baker's stigmata.) Customers aside, it was still a whole lot more fun than the thought of crawling up I-95, or squatting beside the extruded plastic chairs in some becalmed airport terminal, like desperate salmon programmed to return to the spawning grounds at all costs.

Not that I had to travel this year. But I'm not in the bakery anymore. My husband had time off, too. And both of our mothers have moved close. There was no chance of getting invited to a friend's house. No chance of having a quiet meal to ourselves. The noose was drawn tight. We were trapped, obligated (god how I hate that word) to prepare dinner for two women who dislike each other, at best, and who come, each of them, equipped with enough emotional baggage to open a Samsonite outlet. I myself turned Jekyll and Hyde about the whole prospect, in turns gracious (''This will be our gift to them!") and realistic ("Honestly, how much is this gonna suck?") My Zen-like facade shattered for good on Thanksgiving morning when I looked up from stuffing preparations to see a dark green sedan weaving slowly down my street. ''That's not your mom, is it?!" I cried. ''We're not eating till two!'' I hovered anxiously at the hall window, while Steely Dan crooned knowingly about ''when the demon is at your door''. Luckily for me, the slow moving car turned out to be a false alarm. ''It must've been someone else's unwanted relative, showing up too early,'' my husband observed. And yes, when he said that, it broke my heart. And yes, I was still relieved.

We'd planned our coping mechanisms. Like, we'd turn our mothers' neuroses into a drinking game. Every time my mother fretted, we'd take a swig of wine. Or, if his mother said ten obnoxious things, I'd treat myself to a purchase from ETSY, as compensation for pain and suffering. But the actual meal went better than planned. Both of our mothers were well behaved. My mother did bring her overnight bag, just in case she couldn't face the 7 mile drive back home; his mother told a lengthy tale of complaining to the phone company ''not that that's something I usually do.'' But they were civil to us and to each other, the food was great, and both moms were out the door by 4. My headache was gone by 7:30.

And the very next day, we had our real Thanksgiving. It was my idea. We hosted the first annual Leftovers party, an absolutely obligation-free, come-as-you-are bring-who-you-want gathering of friends, wine, turkey, tofurkey, stuffing, grilled oysters, good music, and whatever else happened through the door. I just wanted something fun, and I think I succeeded. Midway through the night, in the middle of the dancing and gorging, one new friend turned to me and said, "This is what Thanksgiving is all about." And it was.