While many Americans shopped the holiday sales the moment they pushed back from the Thanksgiving table last Thursday, I stood gazing into my fridge contemplating the fate of all those leftovers. Let’s start this year’s advent calendar with a nod to the biggest meal of the year… thus far.
Door number one belongs to the fridge.
December 1, 2025
Fun fact: my paternal ancestors descend from passengers of the Mayflower who celebrated the first Thanksgiving in 1621 at Plymouth, Massachusetts. Ancestral ties notwithstanding, turkey is not my favorite thing to eat. It’s kind of a pain to cook and no matter what I do, some part of it ends up dry. Gravy should be a savory supporting flavor, not a culinary lubricant.
I’m a twenty-first century gal. Unlike my Pilgrim precursors, I’ve had the pleasure of eating at a diner. There is nothing quite like the comfort food served up at an American diner. After considerable thought, over the course of maybe five minutes, I decided to eschew the traditional Thanksgiving turkey. Instead, my menu consisted of classic diner fare: meatloaf, gravy, mashed potatoes, green beans, squash, and mac and cheese. Before you ask, of course I made stuffing. A turkey isn’t necessary to enjoy seasoned bread stuffing. Homemade apple and chocolate cream pies with whipped cream rounded out the dessert course. The first diner-themed Thanksgiving was declared a success by those who partook.
But there’s a catch.
Roasting a turkey has the distinct advantage that there is leftover meat for days. Meatloaf doesn’t get the same mileage. Unlike roast turkey, there aren’t several pounds of meatloaf stowed away for later. The only things left to eat are the side dishes. One doesn’t rush to the fridge to make a squash sandwich. During the third football game of the day no one asks if there are any green beans left. Holding open the fridge doors on Friday, the dearth of meatloaf made me realize that once it’s gone, the remaining side dishes lose their sense of purpose.
As I closed the fridge door, just before the light turned off, I swear I heard the potatoes whine, “What were you thinking mashing 3 pounds of us?” The congealed gravy jiggled with indignance in its jar. The green beans lay sullen in their casserole dish knowing they only made the cut because when they’re slathered with sauce and decked out in French fried onions, no one realizes they’re eating green beans. But not all the sides were forlorn. The mac and cheese sat in smug silence because it knows it can stand alone. “We don’t need no stinking meatloaf!” I quickly closed the door before the squash could chime in.
The denizens of 17th century Plymouth might make me wear a scarlet M for straying from the traditional and bountiful fowl that was the centerpiece of their feast. I would challenge their misgivings with the succulent success of my diner alternative. I’d insist that they try my concoction before I start embroidering my bodice. And I dare say my forebears’ buckles would no longer be in a twist after savoring their first bite of their great-to-the-nth granddaughter’s meatloaf. The only thing I’ll do differently next year is to make two of them.
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