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What Happens When the Hostess with the Mostest Passes the Turkey Day Torch

It can be hard handing over holiday duties to the next generation


spinner image a group of people showing a lot of commotion around the holidays
Simon Landrein

Sometime in the last few years, the turkey torch passed to the next generation. And I wasn’t ready.

I loved the decades of Thanksgivings when everyone sat around my mahogany, pedestal-style dining room table that had belonged to my mother. I liked making the corn pudding our special way — a recipe handed down through my family. I liked the haphazard group of people we always had: the usual family and friends, as well as a mix of people from the office, church or our neighborhood who just needed a place to spend the holiday. One work colleague who lived alone became a part of our holidays for eight years straight. 

I even liked the imperfections that became holiday lore. The rookie mistake I made leaving the giblets in the bird. Or when the dog licked the cheese off the salad (no comment on whether I served it). Or that year my husband, brother and I were maneuvering a whole turkey off the grill and dropped it on the ground in the dark backyard (no comment on if we served that either).  And as long as I’m being honest, I admit I also liked the oohs and aahs I’d receive as a host when everything went just right.

I felt comfortable in my host role — preferring to work in the kitchen rather than make conversation in the living room. And then that feeling of accomplishment — sitting with a last glass of wine at the end of the night, my feet on the coffee table, feeling like I had given everyone a pretty darn good time.

When I hit my late 60s, I figured I had 10 more Thanksgivings to host — at least! I thought the next generation wouldn’t get the turkey baster until they ripped it out of my cold, dead hands.

But I should have paid more attention to my wonderful mother-in-law, another longtime holiday host until she and her husband moved to be near grandchildren and the gathering shifted to our house.     

When I started to host Thanksgiving, she would push back at the end of dinner and offer to help clear. Then, she would pick up the butter dish, carry it to the kitchen, put it in the fridge and go back to the living room. "I'll just stay out of the way," she would say.

At the time, staring at a kitchen of holiday mess, I was annoyed. Why wasn’t she helping? But now, I get it. She was used to being the hostess in her own way — in her kitchen, making her cranberry Jello salad (each individual mold carefully turned out on a piece of iceberg lettuce). But in my house, at my Thanksgiving, she wasn't sure who she was — family, guest, someone in between? What were the rules? Could she hang out in the kitchen? Was clean-up expected or would she get in the way?

Ten years ago, I moved into a smaller house and began traveling to my children's homes on Thanksgiving instead of hosting myself. And like my mother-in-law before me, I sit in their living rooms, unsure how I fit in. The aging chef emeritus? The Thanksgiving 800 line sitting patiently in the living room in case something needs a taste test? (And, yes, that IS way too much salt in the mashed potatoes — or is it rude to stay that?). Or yes, on KP duty?

I’ve heard of families where the older generation got nasty and judgmental when the younger one took over. I don’t want to be that person.  And yet, I am definitely sad — grieving what feels like one more notch on the aging belt. It makes me feel old, relegated to being an observer from that comfy chair in the living room. Do I still matter?

Of course, intellectually, I know that holidays don’t go on forever. After all, I took over from the generation before me. Life happens. Someone moves. Someone gets divorced. Someone dies. Children go to college, get jobs, find someone to love and want to create tradition in their own homes. 

I should be grateful the next generation wants to take over. And let’s get real: I don’t even own that big dining room table anymore and, since I’ve downsized, I can barely fit eight, let alone 20, in my living room.     

And isn’t change the norm? I didn’t do Thanksgiving the way my mother-in-law did (no Jello salad at my table, thank you). And so it makes sense that my kids have put their own stamps on theirs — cake instead of pie (Mon dieu!) while keeping up traditions that really matter, like welcoming everyone to their tables.     

So I’ve pledged to get over it. I’ll look around the table this year and see people that I love. I will be grateful that I can be part of something bigger, and I’ll revel in the torch being passed as I happily dig into my daughter’s version of corn pudding.  

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