Knives Out

Everyone does Turkey Day a little differently. I love seeing the many ways people prepare their meals, the various cultural traditions people use to show their love. My favorite part is always the stuffing (a.k.a. dressing), which to me means white bread, lots of butter, spices, eggs, onions, celery, and love. I learned that I need to always bring my own no matter where I’m headed; otherwise, I’m destined for disappointment. A friend once served me stuffing with grapes and mushrooms in it, and—I say this with love—THEY DESERVE JAIL TIME. Usually, people crave whatever they grew up with, the nostalgia influencing our tastes buds, so if you’re someone whose mother served Pillsbury crescent rolls when you were seven, chances are you’re leaving room on your plate for one at thirty-five too.

I was around twenty-four when I stopped regularly doing the Pellegrino family Thanksgiving. It was too expensive and troublesome to travel from California to Ohio at the end of November and the end of December, so I often chose Christmas. I’d do Friendsgiving instead, or I’d be someone’s plus-one to their childhood homes. It was always amazing to me that regardless of the family background of the home I was going into, there was always a constant: the person cooking the main dish was always, without fail, on the brink of a breakdown, and I’ve never once witnessed anything quite like the Thanksgiving 2012 breakdown at the Fritz residence.

My invite to the Fritz household came courtesy of my buddy Eric, who knew the youngest Fritz daughter, Denise, from work. They weren’t super close, but Denise was looking for new friends, and Eric and I both found ourselves solo for the holiday. The Fritz family was stationed in Southern California, which is rare. It feels like all of California is filled with transplants from other places, but there are a lot of beautiful suburban areas around Los Angeles loaded with people who grew up here. Tucked away in Thousand Oaks, the Fritz fam lived in a cozy cul-de-sac—filled with nearly identical luxe houses—that looked straight out of Desperate Housewives. They were McMansions, the only difference in each being the color of paint slathered on the outside.

Eric and I pulled up to the Fritz house and immediately noticed the next-door neighbor’s house stood out in that the lawn was covered in decor. At first, it was hard to tell what was on the grass, but as we got closer, it became clear: holiday inflatables. If you’ve ever been to Walmart or Target between the months of October and December, you know the ones I’m talking about. The giant, blow-up snowmen, snow globes, trees, and Santas that go in the yard. They’re aggressive to the eye when they are fully erect, but when they aren’t, they look like cartoons who were flattened by anvils. There’s something dark and depressing about these lawn ornaments when they aren’t filled with air. But the only thing more depressing is when they are filled and greeting people on the street. I love decorations, but I find these so…“look at me.” Perhaps some of you adorn your lawns with these, and I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but they’re ugly and impersonal. Go get some vintage plastic Santas, or stick with classic lights. Anything but the yard balloons. In this case, the yard had a giant turkey wearing a pilgrim hat.

Eric and I entered the Fritz house and were immediately greeted by the matriarch, Janeane Fritz, who came at us with a smile that can only be described as morning Valium mixed with cooking wine, the traditional Thanksgiving cocktail of all at-home chefs getting ready for a family meal.

“Did you see those fucking ugly decorations next door? Don’t even get me started,” Janeane said before even a hello or a nice to meet you.

Keep in mind, I had never said two words to this woman before, and I barely even knew her daughter. In fact, Eric and I probably should’ve declined the invitation as we were all essentially strangers. Only now we were strangers on a team together, ones who shared a collective enemy in the tacky next-door neighbors.

“Those inflatables? Ugh, yes, they can’t even loosen the purse strings enough to keep them blown up on a holiday? They’re just flat on the grass,” I said, sucking up to Janeane with my judgment.

“Are you serious? I thought they had them blown up today. They’re such trash, that Mitzy and Dave,” Janeane said. “Shit, I better get back to the kitchen. Welcome to our home.”

Denise came to the doorway to take our jackets and introduced us to the rest of the group while Janeane went back in.

Eric buddied up with some guy named Sam who he thought was gay but was also maybe married to Denise’s cousin Shelly? We’re not sure. Eric always had a knack for sleeping with straight guys, so his holiday mission was set, while I did what I do best: I found the oldest breathing woman to cozy up to for the day. This meant Grandma Jojo, who unfortunately proved to be a bit too old for me. Don’t get me wrong, I still poured myself a giant glass of pinot grigio and sat my ass next to her, but she wasn’t quite with it. Her sister, Aunt Wendy, was only slightly younger, but she kept trying to talk to me about politics, and I didn’t have the patience. Once I realized Grandma J. was close to death (and attempting to converse with the dog) and Aunt Wendy was canvassing for Trump, I walked my butt into the kitchen to chat with Janeane. I was Goldilocks, and Janeane was just right when it came to women over sixty for me to befriend for the day.

Maybe it’s the gay thing, but women between the age of forty and whatever Grandma Jojo was tend to open up to me in ways I can’t quite explain.

“Did you meet my lazy fucking husband, David?” Janeane asked as if we were the oldest of friends. I can’t imagine she talked that way to other strangers, but it’s always been my superpower. Even as a young boy, I would befriend the moms at slumber parties instead of socializing with my peers. They would tell me their troubles, and I would listen.

“No, I don’t think I’ve met him. Can I help you with anything?” I asked, offering to change the subject in case she wanted to ease into conversation about her husband.

“He’s probably sleeping in the basement, that dumb shit,” she replied.

I like a swearer, but even I was feeling like Janeane was filled with a little too much hostility.

“Guys can be so useless sometimes. Should I pour you a glass of wine?” I asked, hoping to relieve some tension by agreeing with her and offering a solution (booze).

“God bless you, yes, I’ll have a tall glass of anything.”

I went over to the makeshift bar on the kitchen counter and poured Janeane some of the pinot noir I recognized. It was an eighteen-dollar bottle, which I thought was classy at the time, when in fact it was probably the cheapest bottle there, likely brought by Cousin Shelly, whom I later found out was left out of the inheritance when the patriarch passed.

“David! Can you come help me?” Janeane shouted into the ether. It wasn’t even directed anywhere, just sent to the high heavens as she mixed some gravy and placed some dinner rolls on a baking sheet.

“He’s a fucking asshole. Piece of shit,” she said under her breath about her husband of over forty years.

“I’m happy to help,” I offered.

“That is sweet, but I need him to get OFF HIS LAZY ASS and get the napkins from the back of my car,” she said.

Not a peep came from David. I assume he was either asleep or dodging his wife, who was now chugging the wine I put in front of her.

“Fill me up, Cookie,” she said, surely forgetting my name and instead deciding to call me Cookie as if she were Harvey Fierstein and I were a chorus boy in Hairspray.

I poured her more wine while she tended to the food. Janeane mixed mashed potatoes, heated up corn, and melted marshmallows on the most delicious-looking sweet potato casserole I’ve ever seen, all the while balancing her wine. But the more she drank, the more vulgar Janeane became.

“Fucking turkey holiday and my fucking dumb shit husband can’t get his goddamn ass up to help me. I cook for his asshole mother. Goddamn piece of shit…” she mumbled to herself. You know how Joe Pesci mumbles obscenities in Home Alone when his hair is lit on fire or he trips on ice? Janeane was like that, only using actual swear words instead of whatever Joe had to say to keep a PG rating.

“What a dumb shit,” she added. In fact, she kept calling him a dumb shit. It was her go-to insult.

Being that she had knives and fire nearby, I decided to be as nice as humanly possible and hopefully stay on her good side. Her wrath knew no bounds. When David finally stumbled into the kitchen, hair a mess and seemingly still half asleep from a nap, Janeane ordered him to retrieve her precious napkins in the car.

“Janeane, let me go change really quick. I didn’t realize company was already here. I’ll get the napkins after I do,” David said as he stumbled to his bedroom to remove his Family Guy T-shirt without even saying hello.

I looked around to see if other people were seeing what I was seeing—something way more compelling than any of the scenes from Marriage Story. Adam Driver and Scarlett Johansson had nothing on Janeane and David. Unfortunately, everyone else was missing the show. Eric and his maybe-straight crush were lost in each other’s eyes, while Shelly started a card game with Denise. Aunt Wendy was knee-deep in cable news, and Grandma Jojo was likely immune to the feud. At ninety, her eyes had already seen all there is to see when it comes to domestic partnerships. Her husband passed years earlier, so she had time to relive all the good times and bad in her mind. I also think maybe she thought the dog was her husband? Anyway…

Janeane moved on to the turkey, deciding she was going to carve the bird and plate it while her husband changed. She gripped her carving knife and giant fork, only pausing her mission to drink more wine. I knew David would be back soon, so to stay close to the action, I offered to make a charcuterie plate from the meats and cheeses she had in the refrigerator. I slowly layered cheese and crackers while Janeane fumed about having to do most of the work for this shindig.

“Denise! Can you help us in the kitchen?” she asked.

“I’m playing cards!” Denise replied.

Janeane’s eyes went wide, and she took another chug of wine, seemingly the only thing keeping her from having an aneurysm right then and there.

“Fucking lazy-ass motherfucking family can’t do one goddamn thing for me,” she said as she pierced the cooked meat with the fire of a thousand suns.

David finally came downstairs. “Okay, I’m changed. What do you need?”

“I need you to get the fucking napkins I asked you to get me a thousand fucking times already, dumb shit,” Janeane said.

David’s eyes darted toward the empty wineglass near Janeane’s right hand.

“Are you drinking?” he asked.

“Yes, I needed a fucking drink,” she replied.

“Fuck, Janeane, you’re ruining your sobriety for this?”

!

Uh-oh. I never got clarity on how long she had been sober, but I was the one who poured her the first drink, and David seemed completely in shock that she was back on the sauce.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know—” I said apologetically.

“Mom, you’re drinking again?” Denise said as she walked into the kitchen, tears forming in her eyes.

“Maybe if I got some fucking help! Where are my fucking napkins?” Janeane shouted to take the attention away from her boozing.

It was pure chaos. Denise and David were finally upright and in the kitchen, but clearly a family trauma had been unleashed. Eric, meanwhile, was fully hand-on-knee with Denise’s cousin’s husband. Shelly had noticed Eric flirting and told her husband to stop it as if he were a dog humping a pillow. I stood in shock at the events unfolding around me.

“I’ll get the napkins my-fucking-self,” Janeane said as she grabbed the car keys from the nearby counter.

Not knowing what else to do, I simply ran to the front door and held it open for Janeane to walk through. She stomped by me in a huff and immediately looked to her right. Mitzy, the next-door neighbor, had finally inflated her lawn decor.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Janeane said to herself as she turned back around and went into the kitchen. “Keep holding that door for me!” she said.

Janeane grabbed the carving knife she had been using for the bird in her right hand, car keys still gripped in her left. She shot past me and into the yard next door. Janeane took her knife and began stabbing the inflatable turkey with intensity, as if she were Michael Myers in Halloween or Mike Myers trying to cut himself out of prosthetics after wrapping The Cat in the Hat. The decorative balloon flattened while Janeane made her way to the driveway and dug the autumnal napkins out of the trunk of their family car.

The air was also taken out of the metaphorical balloon inside the house. David and Denise fell in line, finally contributing by setting the table. Eric formed a truce with Shelly, Aunt Wendy turned off Tucker Carlson, and Grandma Jojo wheeled herself to the dinner table, unfazed by all of it. We proceeded to say grace as if nothing had happened, like Janeane never broke her sobriety or destroyed her neighbor’s ugly lawn decor in the middle of a nervous breakdown. David held her hand during the prayer, as if they were in love all this time.

“Bless us, O Lord, for these, thy gifts, which we are about to receive, from thy bounty, through Christ our Lord. Amen.”

Following the amen, I thanked God personally for giving me this thrilling holiday entertainment.

As Eric and I said goodbye to the Fritz family, Janeane pulled me in for a hug.

“Sorry things were a little nuts earlier. Thanksgiving can be hectic,” she said.

“I’m sorry I poured you wine. I didn’t know—”

“We’re all just doing the best we can,” she answered.

Janeane was right. Although something as simple as placing food on the table may seem like a small task, a million small tasks add up to a giant undertaking. And that can be a lot to handle, especially on your own. So do the best you can, and if that means taking a sharp blade to a neighbor’s lawn decorations, SO BE IT.