Our kitchen has about nine feet of counter if you count the stretch beside the stove where the toaster lives, and I do count it, because at Thanksgiving every inch is spoken for. The oven is a standard thirty-inch. The refrigerator is not large. And for the third year running, we're hosting eight people: Ben's parents, my sister and her husband, my mother, and the three of us.
The first year in this house, I tried to cook Thanksgiving the way my grandmother did in her big farmhouse kitchen, where everything happened on the day and every burner was going at once. By two o'clock I had a turkey with nowhere to rest, rolls with nowhere to bake, and Ben carving on top of the washing machine. We laugh about it now. Mostly.
Since then I've worked out a plan that fits the kitchen we actually have. Here it is, as we're running it this year.
The principles
- The oven belongs to the turkey on Thursday. Everything else either gets made ahead, uses the stovetop, or uses some other appliance.
- Make ahead whatever reheats well. Which is most of the menu.
- Let other people bring the things that travel. Pies, rolls and a salad all travel beautifully.
- Clear the fridge before you fill it. Space is the real shortage.
The menu and who makes what
| Dish | Who | When | How it's heated |
|---|---|---|---|
| Turkey (12–13 lb) | Me | Thursday morning | Oven |
| Cornbread dressing | Me | Assembled Wednesday | Oven while turkey rests |
| Gravy | Me | Base Tuesday, finished Thursday | Stovetop |
| Mashed potatoes | Ben | Wednesday | Slow cooker on warm |
| Green beans | Me | Thursday | Stovetop |
| Sweet potato casserole | My mother | Her house | Oven while turkey rests |
| Rolls | Sister | Bought from a bakery | Warmed last |
| Pies (pecan, pumpkin) | Ben's mother | Her house | Room temperature |
| Cranberry sauce | Lila and me | Monday | Served cold |
The cranberry sauce is Lila's job, with supervision. She is six and very serious about stirring. It costs about $3 for a bag of berries, a cup of sugar and an orange, and it keeps all week.
The week, day by day
Sunday
The turkey moves from the freezer to the refrigerator. A 12-pound bird needs about three days to thaw in the fridge. I put it on a rimmed sheet pan on the bottom shelf. Then I clean out the refrigerator completely, which is the most useful hour of the whole week.
Monday
Cranberry sauce. Cornbread for the dressing gets baked and left out on the counter, loosely covered, so it dries a bit.
Tuesday
Gravy base: I roast a couple of turkey wings, simmer them with onion, celery and carrot into stock, and thicken it with a roux. It goes in a jar. On Thursday I just whisk in the pan drippings.
Wednesday
Ben makes the mashed potatoes, with plenty of butter, and they go into the slow cooker insert in the fridge. I chop everything for the dressing and assemble it in the baking dish, covered. I also set the table on Wednesday night, so Thursday morning feels like a head start instead of a scramble.
Thursday
- 8:30: Turkey comes out of the fridge to sit for an hour.
- 9:30: Turkey into the oven at 325°F. For our bird, that's roughly three to three and a half hours, but I go by a thermometer, not the clock.
- 10:00: Slow cooker of mashed potatoes goes on low.
- About 1:00: Turkey out to rest under foil for at least forty minutes. Oven goes up to 375°F. Dressing and sweet potatoes go in.
- 1:30: Green beans and gravy on the stovetop. Rolls in for the last ten minutes.
- 2:00: Ben carves, at the counter this time.
Notes for small kitchens
- Borrow a cooler. Drinks and backup butter live in a cooler on the back porch so the fridge has room. Late November is usually cool enough here.
- Clear one counter completely for landing hot dishes. I move the toaster, coffee maker and fruit bowl to the dining room hutch for the day.
- Run the dishwasher before guests arrive so it's empty and ready to swallow the first load.
- Accept help with the dishes. Whoever didn't cook washes. That's the house rule, and Ben's father takes it very seriously.
It's Friday as I write this, almost a week out. The turkey is still in the freezer, wedged under the ice trays, waiting for Sunday like a large pale guest who knows when to arrive. The bag of cranberries is on the counter, and Lila has asked four times when she gets to make them. Monday, I keep telling her. The plan is taped to the fridge door, and for once the kitchen feels big enough.
