There are some things we just shouldn’t be bringing to Thanksgiving dinner. Nobody is looking forward to ducking a vegetable-based jello salad or fielding questions about why they’re single.
We can escape what has the potential to be the worst meal of the year. But only if we resist the temptation to say “but surely I am not the problem.” If we’re honest, the tendency to provoke, hurt, and shame is not exclusively a fault of the ignorant or an accident that befalls the aged. We’re all leavened by the yeast-like nastiness that feeds on self-righteousness, judgment, and pride and blows up our relationships. (I’ve been assigned to bring bread to my family gathering this year; it’s affecting my metaphors.)
So, speaking of metaphors, here’s five yucky conversations as equally yucky dishes.
Unproductive political jabs or discourse is like bringing a tofurky.
This is the obvious one. It’s not that tofu is bad. One of the best Thanksgivings of my life was soy-based. And, like the ethical vegan who opts for tofu out of a wish to reduce the suffering in the world, our motivations may be pure. We may even be right! Unfortunately, a tofurky offered out of love can look just like a tofurky offered in self-righteous superiority and judgment. Anyway you slice it, it’s a gelatinous thing. Hurt, pride, fear, love, and anger all squished together become confusing and messy. And a spiteful or provocative comment is never really convincingly excused as “just a joke” or successfully disguised as fair-minded discussion.
A rigid tradition is like “canned raisin bread.”
Around this time of year, my father gets a craving for a bizarre baked good I can only describe as “canned raisin bread.” It’s a dense, dark log that plops out of a can and, even slathered in cream cheese, is both too moist and too dry. The flavor is influenced strongly by all the worst attributes of a raisin. Given that it is not very sweet and comes in a can, I can only assume that it is a vestige of the Cold War. Maybe it was a provision designed for the inhabitants of nuclear bunkers. One or two bites would make death seem relatively palatable. Thankfully, my father doesn’t try to inflict his strange tradition on anyone else.
I love a tradition as much as the next person. And we all have pictures in our minds of how things “ought to be.” But it is easy to become rigidly constrained to the “way things have always been.” It is easy to protect what is comfortable and familiar to us at the expense of hospitality to those we love. We cause pain with inflexible standards for how they should look, speak, or behave. Traditions should bind us together, not divide us.
Body commentary is like those “Salad of Horror” recipes.
Speaking of traditions better lost to time, the “salads” of the mid-twentieth century should probably be left off the Thanksgiving table. I’ve seen recipes for abominations that mixed lime jello, shredded carrot, cheese, and Cool Whip. I’ve heard stories involving tuna!
I’m left whispering a beleaguered and disturbed “why?” Why would anyone do this to themselves, to say nothing of their supposed friends and loved ones? Maybe it’s the same destructive impulse that prompts us to comment negatively on our own bodies and those belonging to others. Maybe the habit is inherited from previous generations, like the “Salad of Horror.” But we can escape the sticky grasp of guilt and judgment. We can break the (jello)mold.
Some old grievance is like a pumpkin pie made from expired pumpkin.
A friend recently shared the un-fun fact that canned pumpkin twenty years passed its expiration date turns gray.
Family can have a way of pushing our buttons to be sure. But in raking up hurts and arguments past their expiration date, we can easily poison the whole party, including ourselves. Sometimes you have to open the can. You have to examine it—see what it looks like—before you throw it out. But don’t make it into pie.
Shallow conversation is the “bring napkins” of Thanksgiving talk.
This may appear to contradict what I said about tofurky, but I don’t want anyone at my Thanksgiving to bring the conversational napkins. “bring napkins” is often code for a contribution that isn’t seen as valuable. It’s a kind of bare minimum. In advising against some topics of discussion, I’m not saying everyone should stick to safe, boring topics like the weather and avoid the issues that matter. I don’t necessarily believe that if “you don’t have something nice to say, don’t say anything at all.” We shouldn’t resign ourselves to bringing the conversational napkins, to bitter silence and cold relational decay.
Instead, bring charcuterie. Bring generosity. Assume your dinner companions are adventurous and hungry. Assume that they hold both curiosity and need. Provide as much opportunity as possible for people to be the most sophisticated version of themselves—the person who could try a new cheese or a new idea. Expect to be surprised together.
Emily Stroble is a writer of bits and pieces and is distractedly pursuing lots of novel ideas and nonfiction projects as inspiration strikes. As an editorial assistant at Zondervan, she helps put the pieces of children’s books and Bibles together. A lover of the ridiculous, inexplicable, and wondrous as well as stories of all kinds, Emily enjoys getting lost in museums, movies old and new, making art, the mountains of Colorado, and the unsalted oceans near Grand Rapids. Her movie reviews also appear in the Mixed Media section of The Banner and her strange little stories of the fantastic are on the Calvin alumni fiction blog Presticogitation. Her big dream is to dig her hands deep into the soil of making children’s books as an editor…and to finally finish her children’s novel.
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Brilliantly written, love all the food metaphors! Can’t even pick a favorite! Will be thinking about this next Thursday.