THE GRUMPUS FILES

T Minus Thanksgiving

We are almost halfway through the gauntlet and I’m ready

I’ve been ignoring the throngs, as they paw through items in the Walmart aisles and bins, and rightfully so. They ignore me. I avoid the grocery store, sending my spouse who claims to enjoy “an outing.” He is strangely unaffected by the buzzing holiday vibe, which rings in my ears like a swarm of rapacious locusts.

I gotta cook some yams, however, and bring some kind of perfect gift in a foo-foo gift bag to the host, so now I’m smack dab in the middle of having to leave the house and shop, and think.

Shoot.

Nothing I give the host is going to improve her life, unless it’s a gift certificate to Amazon, but I must gird up my loins and face the facts. Things are expected of me. Things I do not like.

I take comfort in knowing some percentage of Americans regret having to endure the holiday season as much as I do. For the sake of convenience and because math is the last thing I need now, we’ll go with 50%.

When I hosted a get-together recently, the guests brought a gift of dish towels in a cute gift bag. It was a terrible choice because we already own a large collection of colorful towels and the ones they gave us don’t match. I regifted a month later, in the same bag, and now I’ve inexplicably morphed into a person who brings possibly useless presents to occasions.

Darn.

I don’t cook, and when I say this it’s not to be modest. It’s because I can’t pan-fry shallots in clarified butter or sautee morel mushrooms for a side dish whilst tossing a salad of exotic greens like arugula and whatever vegetable is currently trending.

I’ve forgotten how to do all that because I only eat meat. It’s been freeing. I hated cooking even when I went through my 20-something “I’ll make fresh pesto” phase.

The idea of a woman breezing through a kitchen while she enjoys a sumptuous glass of Merlot that glows with hints of the setting sun baffles me on so many levels.

Geez.

The burden of showing up and being nice, curious, appropriate, and not rolling my eyes if we pray — please, Jesus, do not make this Thanksgiving a reason to bow our heads — is plenty for me to deal with.

I don’t want to cook, but I am female and I said I would.

Yes, Ya’am

My burdens do not end with grocery shopping. I shall be cooking a dish I’ve never made in my life. I am not a yam-maker by trade, upbringing, or temperament, but in a panic I chose yams.

You would have done the same. It was either yams or mashed potatoes and I shall never again prepare mashed potatoes. Of all the foods I’ve given up, breaking up with spuds was the most heart-wrenching.

This majestic creature, which I can no longer ingest, has become nothing more than a temptress, a lost love, a tantalizing goddess that only others can enjoy freely. Damn you, nightshades!

Mashed potatoes are also a pain in the neck on account of all the peeling. Then there’s the minor controversy that could arise over lumpy versus silky.

It’s a hidden controversy because those who dislike lumps won’t say anything. They will take their lumps, and silently judge my potato-mashing skills.

Screw ‘em.

So it’s yams all the way down. I’ll look up a recipe with tiny marshmallows because in my limited cooking capacity I know I can melt those delightful sweet snowy morsels into the shape of a glow-in-the-dark frisbee. It’s s’mores over yams with brown sugar, slightly mashed. Who needs a recipe, amiright?

This means I’ll need to get in the car, and it's cold outside so that’ll be a hassle. I’ll have to brave the swarms of shoppers — half of whom hate this as much as I do and are seeping false bravado — to find the yams.

Grocery Chores

It’s feasible because I happen to know yams are in the potato neighborhood. Those tantalizing spuds stalk me everywhere and pull me in like a starchy tractor beam.

Gods willing, I’ll get outta there without frowning at a child or toppling over a geezer. The tykes tend to follow me into public places, especially restaurants, and the geezers are unsteady and copious.

Holy hell.

Once I wrangle the yam dish into acceptable form, I’ll need to suit up to reach the summit. I expect adverse weather.

This will require a trip to the Dollar Store, which has a surprising number of useful items that can become gifts when nestled inside the appropriate fancy gift bag. Somehow, I shall locate an object for less than $10 to give the impression I’ve been thoughtful.

I have not. Rumination isn’t the same as thoughtfulness.

Then I gotta root around in my fancy bag collection, which never works out well because I’m usually down to Christmas crap and rarely have enough tissue paper to successfully hide the cheap-ass gift.

For fuck’s sake.

The penultimate chore is making sure the yam dish is somehow secure both in the kitchen and the car, which involves communicating with my spouse. As if I haven’t already overcome so much. Fortunately, he likes yams and will be appropriately cowered/vigilant after hearing the usual tirade about the inadequate gift.

He knows we are delivering mostly crap in that gift bag and the yams are all we’ve got to offer any hope of redemption.

So he won’t drop them.

Finally — I’ve got to dress myself. I’m terrible at this. The one thing I have going for me is I’m 98% sure brown is my power color, and this is an excellent season for brown.

I’m aware there are downsides to this wardrobe decision. I might blend in too well with the tablecloth. The host I met while I played a flying monkey in The Wizard of Oz. So all she ever saw me wear was brown. Will this matter? I don’t know, but the fact that I give a sh*t is evidence of how much I overthink clothing, fashion, and duds of every stripe.

I’ve got three more days. I should probably cobble together my outfit this afternoon.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m filled with ever-lovin’ gratitude. It’s spilling out of me like stuffing out of a dead turkey.

Happy Thanksgiving!

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Jean Campbell recently started her first Substack newsletter to laser focus on getting her book, City of Lies: A Street Hustler’s Omaha Journey published.