Commentary: Avoiding The Holiday Iceberg

Ah, the magic of the holidays! The lights, the colors, the sounds and smells!

The dread.

OK, "dread" is a little strong. How about "the apprehension?" The "constant and growing sensation that something is about to go horribly wrong and you'll have little or no recourse but to go full Slim Pickens in 'Dr. Strangelove' and ride the bomb all the way down?"

Yeah, that last one is just about right.

Let me qualify. I love the holidays. The time with family, and festivities, even the shopping for presents, provided it doesn't take long and involves ice cream. An aside: No, things haven't changed much since I was 5.

What concerns me, or, specifically, hangs over my head like the Electric Carving Knife of Damocles, is the family meal. It seems in my long and fruitful life with the Lovely Mrs. Smith, we've had our share of ... opportunities, which is what overly optimistic people call disasters.

Like, for instance, our first Christmas. For some reason, the Lovely Mrs. Smith and I decided to invite a significant number of our friends and family to our two-bedroom, pretty-much-refurbished rental. When you're young, you get ideas like that.

And, when you're young, you don't realize you really shouldn't trust a holiday dinner involving cuts of meat far more expensive than you can realistically afford to a stove installed during the Eisenhower Administration.

Thankfully, the one useful wedding present we had received was a microwave oven, which we used to turn the brisket from tartar to a fairly decent meal. That was aided, in no small part, to the fact that most of our guests elected to bring housewarming presents in the form of alcohol and consume most of it while waiting for dinner to be served. Because, again, what young married couples need most is lots of support, counsel and booze.

Then there's the great Turkey Fryer debacle of sometime in the late 1990's/early 2000's. That's when the Lovely Mrs. Smith and I decided (Is there a theme here? And just how much "deciding" do you think was involved?) we would invite her parents to a Thanksgiving feast featuring a turkey I would fry.

Except Thanksgiving Day turned into a cold, rainy slopfest and even the makeshift umbrella/shelter I put together couldn't keep the fryer lit. Which led me, in either a stroke of genius or a fit of madness, to decide to back the cars out of the garage and move the fryer in there.

Let's stop here and review the very detailed directions that came with the fryer, directions that quite distinctly settle that "stroke of genius, fit of madness" debate. Directions that couldn't be more clear if they had said, "Don't be an idiot and move a combination of hot oil, flame and propane into a confined space because it's, like, really, really dangerous."

It would have been great if I had reviewed those directions before I lowered the turkey into the deep fryer, only to watch Archimedes' Principle take over and hot oil spill out over the sides and run toward the open flame.

The worst that could happen didn't. However, given what I know now about that house, I might have just slipped quietly in the garage door and suggested we all take a ride. And bring the photo albums, heirlooms and the big-screen TV. Just because.

Then there's the smoker that flamed out while we went to the movies and left us microwaving a tenderloin. Which, apparently, brings us full circle.

Now before we get the idea that every holiday dinner is a disaster of Titanic proportions (without the sappy music and the whole "King of the World" thing), allow me to assure you that's only true in a very narrow subset of them. The subset that involves me cooking.

Limit my participation to getting in the way, chopping up a few things and eating, and our holiday celebrations are the stuff of Rockwell paintings. Leave me in charge of anything more complex and that painting more closely resembles Jackson Pollock.

So, today, in the interest of holiday cheer, I'm going to be doing what I do best. Which is nothing.

And whether you're a more active participant or just along for the gastronomical ride, here's hoping your holidays are filled with love, laughter, family and all the really good stuff of life, whether you had anything to do with cooking the meal or not.

GARY SMITH IS A RECOVERING JOURNALIST LIVING IN ROGERS.

Commentary on 11/27/2014

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