by Mick Rhodes | editor@claremont-courier.com

With the holidays upon us, I am once again in the throes of imposter syndrome, overcome with the same old raw panic: how am I going to pull this off, and who the hell am I to think I can?

When I was young, the adults in my life seemed like they had this holiday stuff down cold. They were freakin’ ballers, as my kids say, masters of the pumpkin pie, churning out delicious, juicy, and piping hot turkeys every dang time. They were cool on game days, confident.

I do not feel that way.

Thanksgivings of yore were clinics in comfort food efficiency; the side dishes were abundant and of uniform temperature, the tables — dining room luxury for the adults, janky card table for the kids — were set with care, and the desserts homemade and glorious. Well, most of them anyway. The only stinker was the Jell-O salad my grandmother called — most inaccurately — “ambrosia.” To readers unfamiliar with this abomination, here’s how it worked: on Thanksgiving eve, grandma would prepare two packs of strawberry Jell-O, mix a couple cans of fruit cocktail into the warm goo, then pour the gelatinous concoction into a large, clear glass bowl and refrigerate it overnight. On Thanksgiving morning she would mix chopped walnuts into a large container Cool Whip, then spread that lumpy synthetic mess atop of the now jiggly Jell-O and canned fruit mistake. Adults tolerated it. Us kids despised it. The generous leftovers were always covered in Saran Wrap and sent home with that year’s unlucky recipient.

By contrast, there were never, ever enough deviled eggs. Every year my four cousins and I fought over the wee pungent treasures. Allotments were determined by the oldest or bossiest kid in a dead serious assessment of the year’s bounty, which was usually revealed about 30 minutes before supper time. Grandma had a special deviled egg plate with space for 20 or so. If we were lucky, we’d have an overflow supply of about a dozen more. No matter, there were never enough to satisfy our lust for mayonnaise-laden yolk. By the time I was 10 I could have easily snarfed half a dozen. Among us cousins, I don’t recall ever being bequeathed more than three.

Now decades removed from the twice yearly (Thanksgiving and Christmas) deviled eggs skirmishes, I have to wonder if the adults simply enjoyed watching the drama unfold, and thus utilized the tried and true marketing strategy of creating demand by limiting supply. Watching us pint-sized Gordon Geckos bring our negotiating skills to bear on the precious barnyard commodity must have been entertaining.

The etymology of the moniker “deviled eggs” has to do with 18^th century Europeans’ laughably low bar for spicy food. Apparently mustard and pepper were exotic flavors back then, hence the “deviled” bit. I’ve also learned some modern religious Southern Americans prefer not to conjure the antichrist during the holidays, and refer to them as “angel eggs” as a safeguard. Never can be too careful I guess.

I’m not making deviled eggs for Thanksgiving this year (apologies if you’re reading this after the holiday). In fact, aside from a few holidays where I had the time and inclination, I haven’t carried on the tradition. Our 2024 feast will include all the usual suspects: turkey, stuffing, gravy, mashed potatoes, candied yams, green bean casserole, mac and cheese, cranberries, rolls, pumpkin and apple pie, and elastic waistband pants.

I have a lot of cooking to do, with little time to prep. It’s going to be steamy in my tiny kitchen. I know I’m never going to measure up to my cool as ice, holiday meal slaying ancestors. My hope is it all comes out edible, relatively warm, and around the same time. The bar is pretty low in this regard as well.

What I’m really after on Thanksgiving is the hang, the sitting around yakking and laughing with my kids. I’ve a tendency to freak out about kitchen splatter and stacks of dishes, and sometimes spend a post-feast hour cleaning up instead of enjoying my family. I must resist that this year. My three youngest are 22, 18 and 14. I know the day is approaching when some or all of them may be obligated to appear elsewhere on holidays. Not knowing how many of these uncomplicated celebrations remain, I plan on soaking up as much of it as possible. The kitchen can wait.

After all, Thanksgiving is about gratitude, right? And we have so much to be thankful for, our little family. We’ve weathered many storms, some of which threatened to upend everything. But we’re on the other side of the worst of it now, and it’s sweetly satisfying. Obstacles remain (who doesn’t have ‘em?), but these days I’m able to love them more and worry less. It’s so much easier when the house isn’t on fire.

Though I’m knocking wood, it’s beginning to feel like peace is the new normal. This has been a long time coming and I am profoundly grateful.

By the time you read this I’ll have wiped up the kitchen splatter, the dishes will be back in their cupboards, and stacks of leftovers will be on standby. Another Thanksgiving will be behind us, and if my luck holds, I’ll get to do it all again next year.