Outing Norman Rockwell’s “Freedom from Want” and/or How To Host an Enjoyable Thanksgiving Feast

I look at this iconic painting of the iconic white American family sitting at table celebrating that most American of holidays, Thanksgiving—Ma at the head, eye drawn to the huge roasted turkey on an oval platter that she’s bending to place on the table; Pa, black-suited, standing behind, not helping her—and think to myself: only a man could have painted this image, a man who never once hosted a large gathering; or roasted, carved and served a whole turkey.

How do I know? I have roasted, carved and served many whole turkeys over the years—the largest, a twenty-one pounder— and let me tell you: it’s not possible to quickly and neatly slice that baby at table surrounded by impatient, salivating loved ones. It takes a good hour to carve a bird that big, and chaos will ensue if you make the kids stay: fidgeting; elbow jabbing, body shoving and screeching; flying bread rolls; and glasses spilling their liquids onto the white tablecloth. Not to mention the pooch lurking outside the frame, living in hope that food will fall from the sky.

Debone-ing and slicing a majestic turkey is a project requiring space and muscle. Only the kitchen will do. Do you have any idea how large a turkey leg is? The thigh and drumstick on that twenty-one pounder was shockingly heavy, spanned the width of the counter and jumped from the knife. I managed to catch it with two forearms against my body just as it flew over the edge.

After taking time to artfully present your handiwork on the serving platter, there’s another hour of clean up. Turkey juice and debris will be splattered all over the counter, backsplash and floor. That spotless apron Ma’s wearing? For show only. Carving a turkey is a full contact sport.

You assume, looking at the painting, that Ma is serving the turkey hot from the oven. But you can’t serve a turkey straight from the oven, much less carve it. Third degree burns can result from the steam just lifting it out the pan. Could she be serving a cold turkey? Come on.

Look at Rockwell’s table. It’s crammed with people. But where are the sides? The mashed potatoes, the stuffing, the cranberry sauce, the gravy boat, the green bean casserole, the yams, the mac n’ cheese, the brussels sprouts roasted with bacon and maple syrup, the salad, the soft rolls. They are glaringly absent, which means that someone—Ma, who else—will be serving them from the kitchen as if she’s a servant or waitress. Very nice, for everyone but her. By the time she sits down to eat, the rest of the party will be ready for dessert. This image lies. Well, maybe that’s too harsh. Let’s call it a patriarchal fantasy complacently ignorant of the work involved because it’s “woman’s work.”

Here’s my take-away as a traditionally raised, i.e. brainwashed, woman in recovery. If you are hosting a Thanksgiving feast with lots of guests and want to enjoy the event yourself, make it a pot-luck buffet. As hostess, you are excused from cooking (unless you want to) in order to prepare your home for company: cleaning, setting the table, and making room where all that lovely food will be served. Your guests bring all the edibles: turkey, gravy, sides and desserts. Spread the dishes and platters along the kitchen counter (or a table to the side of the dining room table), invite everyone to line up and serve themselves, then sit and eat together. While the kids are shoveling food in, they aren’t fighting, and you might be able to talk with your lovely guests in between bites.

After a decent interval to make room, it’s on to the second buffet of desserts: pies— pumpkin, apple and pecan; fruit salad; nuts and cheese; pumpkin bundt cake with maple frosting; brownies; chocolate chip cookies; jello.

After stuffing yourself, is there anything better than sprawling on a couch, practically comatose? But first, help with the dishes, doggie bags of leftovers, and general clean up. Many hands make light work, and then— ahhhh… a post prandial peace drops down like a cozy blanket. The kids lie on the floor, sleeping or watching a movie, while the rest of us make desultory conversation.

This visceral, bodily, group contentment feels prayerful and ancient, an elemental humanness that reaches back in unbroken genetic connection to our forebears of time immemorial. They too would have felt replete and thankful after feasting, relaxed and sheltered by their tribe, sleeping kids entangled like puppies, full bellies rising and falling with each breath.