Heat Is On Again to Somehow Avoid Cooking Thanksgiving Dinner

We look normal. Most of the time, we probably even act normal. But for one day each year, there are those of us who do things we otherwise would never consider.

We throw ourselves on the mercy of our friends and family.

We spend large sums of money and have nothing to show for it the next day.

We deceive the people we care about most.

And although you might think there are only a scattered few of us, the truth is: We are everywhere.

Today, you will probably chat pleasantly with at least one of us during your Thanksgiving dinner.

Who are we? Buckers of tradition. Dinner desperados. Non-cooks on a national day of cooking.

“I refuse to cook Thanksgiving dinner,” said Simi Valley mother Holly Thibodeaux, who tends to lean toward such gourmet fare as macaroni and cheese or Hamburger Helper for her family the rest of the year.

“I just won’t do that to myself. I’ve told my relatives right up front that they will all have to be dead before I do it.”

Thibodeaux, like many of us who suffer from fear of fowl, didn’t always loathe the idea of preparing the traditional dinner. She tried it once a long time ago. The memory still haunts her.

After the turkey started smoking, she put a plastic container filled with mashed potatoes on top of a burner and, well, you know the rest.

“The whole house smelled like burned tires,” she said. “It was a total disaster.”

*

Disaster is our watchword.

The oven, perfect for the past 364 days, breaks down. We send someone out for yams and they return with hams. (“Oh, was that a Y, honey?”) Ours will be the only turkey in California that has a broken thermometer.

In my case, the only explanation I can think of is that I somehow displeased the turkey god. That, or I was visited by one of the three Muses (A-Mused, B-Mused or Muse-Ick) whenever I tried to cook.

And believe me, two years ago I really did try. I hunkered down with my first Butterball, basted and stuffed that sucker at 7 a.m., and proudly displayed my glistening bird on the kitchen counter in the afternoon. He looked delicious.

I wasn’t the only one who thought so.

When I returned about an hour later, Tom was gone. Since I was fairly certain he was incapable of leaving on his own volition, I followed a brown streak on the rug that led outside. There, burping softly on the lawn, was my Great Dane.

My former Great Dane.

Last year was no improvement. I bought all the ingredients. I wrote down what my mother told me. And I really was going to do this.

And then, probably about five minutes after my parents boarded a train and my closest friend’s plane lifted off the ground--all of them on their way to my house--my doctor wheeled me into the operating room for emergency surgery.

My friend, after viewing the frozen turkey still wrapped in plastic, came to my bedside to express her sympathy.

“So what are you going to do next year to get out of cooking?” she asked. “Have your legs amputated?”

*

Don’t think I haven’t considered it. But there are other, less drastic options. Ones that my fellow dinner dodgers employ all the time:

There is always calling up a friend and using the old boy-I’ll-be-lonely-on-Thanksgiving-with-the-kids-gone option.

Or the your-house-is-so-much-nicer-can-I-bring-the-peas? option.

Or the considerably more expensive but always popular let-a-professional-handle-it option.

“For $89.95, we’re doing a full dinner that serves 12 to 14,” said Rebeckah Rithner, a caterer with Culinary Fantasies in Ventura. “They come in and get it Thanksgiving Day.”

Rithner said there had been so many orders this year that employees “are running around with our heads cut off,” which sounds like divine justice. Still, Rithner said they’re not too busy to help customers pull a fast one on their family and friends.

“A lot of them bring their own dishes in,” she said. “We don’t mind at all if they take the credit.”

To help facilitate the facade, the catering folks--who must actually enjoy cooking Thanksgiving dinners--even give tips on how to look like a pro.

“Put some flour on your face, a little water on your brow and look a little harried,” Rithner advises.

So if you look across your table this year and see someone who is smiling broadly, who brought a pie that looks suspiciously like one from Marie Callender’s or who jumped at the chance to bring the peas, don’t even bother asking if she’s grateful.

She is.

Once again, she got out of cooking.