the year of I'm so tired.

On scaling down the holidays and being okay with it

My mother and two delighted children. Thanksgiving 2015.

I woke this morning to twenty advertorial emails from various sources all of which described, in ten bulleted lines or less, how we can reduce our stress during the holidays.

Of the twenty emails, at least half of them said something like this: You thought LAST year was bad? Just wait. Most talked about the probability of political conflagrations to one degree or another — eg: you think the world is coming to an end while the racist uncle in the belt and suspenders who you rarely see is going off on a rampage about immigrants, forgetting that he himself is the grandson of immigrants who escaped certain doom — and the rest focused on how far in advance you can make the turkey stuffing without poisoning everyone.

In the last decade, my holiday season went from very large and busy to fairly small in what felt like the blink of an eye. An only child, I grew up spending every Thanksgiving with my large raft of paternal cousins. The one year I didn’t, 1989, I cooked a mostly vegan Thanksgiving at a friend’s cottage in Woodstock NY, involving a baked stuffed pumpkin that oozed out of the oven and all over my friend’s lovely heart pine floors. I called my aunt right before the guests arrived to wish her and my cousins a happy Thanksgiving, and all my aunt said when she heard my voice was WHERE ARE YOU? It made me feel sad and good all at the same time: I was part of something, I belonged somewhere and to someone.

A decade later, things changed: my father was gone, and my familial connections frayed. So Susan and I started having our own Thanksgiving celebrations: we invited our friends and neighbors, my mother, and some of Susan’s family, and cooked an over-the-top meal for what usually amounted to eighteen or so people. On two occasions, we roasted two large turkeys — one in the oven, and another, which we smoked on Susan’s late father’s patent-pending Weber charcoal grill — and the table sagged under the weight of side dishes too numerous to mention. There were diet-restricted people at the table, so we made various vegan sides in addition to the standard stuff. On every occasion, I insisted on making cranberry apple relish, which was liked by only one person: me. Susan made several pies as always, and our neighbors and friends brought gorgeous salads and other sides. By the time everyone went home, we were utterly exhausted. And then it was time to think about Christmas.

“You’re doing it wrong, Susan.”

Not that I’m being all humbug. But when the big winter holidays run directly into each other and you find yourself gazing not-so-longingly at the new year for assorted reasons, things can get problematic. Even more so if some, or even one, person at the table doesn’t know how to leave the political baggage at the curb. So what is the answer to this? A very small holiday gathering. Which can also be a little bit grim, regardless of how cozy and romantic the media makes it out to be.

This year, our dear friend Simon invited us out to Colorado to spend the holiday with him and his husband, and we really, really wanted to do it. We adore them, Simon is a phenomenal cook, and it’s been an age since we’ve been in Colorado. We couldn’t do it for a number of reasons, not the least of which is my 89-year-old mother (who Simon graciously invited, but she can barely make it up my two front steps much less onto a plane). Her traveling days are pretty much behind her at this point, and as complicated as our relationship is, I couldn’t have her sitting home alone on Thanksgiving. We also have Fergus, our new/old rescue Golden Retriever, who is still too new to our mix to be left behind with a dog-sitter. All of this said, and Simon’s invitation not withstanding, Susan and I laugh about the fact that food writers rarely get invited to other people’s dinners — this is a fact — and so it’s generally been us doing the cooking for a mob, or nothing.

If I had my way – and I shan’t – my Christmas Day eating and drinking would consist of an omelette and cold ham and a nice bottle of wine at lunchtime, and a smoked salmon sandwich with a glass of champagne on a tray in bed in the evening. — Elizabeth David

But this year has been different. We’re tired going in to the holidays. The news has been draining, my mother is not in good shape, I’ve had a freelance editing blip that involved a lot of money vaporizing, we’ve both had assorted maladies (long Covid, Lyme, spinal stenosis, minor knee surgery), and we’ve been going to bed earlier and earlier, reading until we fall asleep, and then not sleeping well. We considered not celebrating the holiday at all, at least not in a big way, and having it be just the two of us and a capon. And while the idea of doing something like that might have sounded depressing a few years ago, it actually sounded like a respite now.

You could make a small porchetta.

We began thinking what a holiday like this would look like, since small turkeys are hard to come by, and roasting a big one just for the two of us seemed crazy. I considered options: capon (after which we would make traditional capon stock for tortellini in brodo, which is the only reason to have a capon in your kitchen), guinea hen (when I make it, I only ever make Amanda Hesser’s recipe which is a lesson in restraint), grouse (I am one of exactly twelve people in America who like it), rib roast, or Julius Roberts’ porchetta for two. I suggested an apple handpie instead of a whole apple pie. A little bit of stuffing. And then: bed.

I’m reminded of Elizabeth David’s famous statement about the holidays: If I had my way – and I shan’t – my Christmas Day eating and drinking would consist of an omelette and cold ham and a nice bottle of wine at lunchtime, and a smoked salmon sandwich with a glass of champagne on a tray in bed in the evening.

Who could blame her.

Our Thanksgiving has expanded: it will, as of last night, involve three (me, Susan, my mother), or, if it snows and my neighbors can’t get up to their family in Vermont, five. There will be a small (9 pound) turkey, stuffing (fennel sausage, apple, sage), Brussels sprouts with grapes, cranberry sauce, and pie.

And then there will be sleep.