For the first Thanksgiving in my new home, we hosted the celebration ourselves. That’s something I haven’t done in about a decade. It was great fun.
I am a lover of traditions, though, so I asked our guests if there was a particular dish that said Thanksgiving to them, because I wanted to be sure we included it, if so. Thanksgiving is a homey holiday, and I wanted everyone to feel at home.
One person said cranberry sauce. I cringed, inwardly, but added that to our shopping list. I hate cranberry sauce. I had no problem providing it for others, though, just as long as I wasn’t expected to eat it myself. It turns out that my husband felt the exact same way, which is further evidence that we are made for each other.
So on the day in question, I opened the can of red gelatinous muck and shook it out of the can. (Have you ever noticed that cranberry sauce makes a distinctive schlurp sound? Shudder.) And then I sort of mushed it up to disguise the can lines. As one does.
Once that was done, I had to admit that it was pretty, sitting in its cut crystal bowl, adding color to the proceedings. (Just keep it on your side of the table, please. So I can pretend it’s not there.)
Once we tucked in to our meal, I proudly pointed out to the person in question that we had her cranberry sauce for her.
She replied, “Oh, it’s not for me. It’s for my husband. I don’t like cranberry sauce.”
Well, then. I looked across the table at him. He seemed perplexed.
“I don’t like cranberry sauce. I just eat it because it’s there.”
“We’ve been together for 32 years and this whole time I didn’t know you dislike cranberry sauce?”
The sauce went straight into the compost bin. Woo hoo! Free at last!
But it makes you wonder how many traditions are only traditions because one person thinks the other person loves them. Go figure.