I was excited to spend Thanksgiving with my boyfriend in his family’s Beverly Hills abode because it was always brimming with decorations that his mother started putting up in August. It was like a little holiday museum complete with ornate ceramic turkeys, cornucopias, and pilgrims. It was so foreign to the non traditional home that I grew up in, I felt like I hopped into the pages of a lifestyle magazine. This was what the holidays were supposed to look like.
His mother was an exceptional cook and her kitchen was filled with cook books and many hand written recipes passed down from grandmother to granddaughter. She was famous for her pies. Pies that made you cry they were so good. I was looking forward to digging into a traditional and delicious feast. However, when we walked through the front door we weren’t accosted by the smells of a juicy bird roasting in the oven. In fact, we didn’t smell anything, really. And his mother was sitting in her living room…knitting. My boyfriend said “Mom, is the bird already cooked?” To which his mother replied “Oh, sweetie, Tofurky doesn’t take that long to cook.”