A Thanksgiving feast for angry times

A classic Thanksgiving recipe, updated for these perilous, angry times (heartburn included).

8 guests, (3 Trumpites, 4 Hillaries, 1 Gary Johnson who arrives late because he didn’t know where the dining room was)

60 years of family squabbles, still stewing and added to the pot

1 gallon of raw fear

1/2 gallon of boiling rage

1 pint of unadulterated guilt

2 quarts of mild frustration

6 cups of exasperation

4 cups of free-range fury

2 pints of low-fat antagonism

3 pounds of gluten-free complaining

1 pound of blame

2 broken promises

4 ounces of milk, spilled

2 ounces of crying, over spilled milk

3 tablespoons of minced irritation, convertible to half a cup of spite.

2 teaspoons of annoyance extract

½ teaspoon of bad timing

¼ teaspoon of touchiness

A sprinkle of irritation

A dash of accusation

A hint of reproach

A splash of annoyance

A pinch of reality

A dusting of growing dissatisfaction

Optional:

2 quarts of reduced-sodium, high-octane arguments (You can find these at your local Twitter or Facebook, but remember that long-simmering arguments are always more flavorful and cut more deeply.)

1 pound of cure (you are likely to need more, particularly if you have forgotten the ounce of prevention)

***

Pre-heat oven to 425 degrees, although everyone is hot already.

Mix table settings, putting Aunt Sophie on the left of Uncle Charlie, who is alt-right. Cousin Judy should be near sister Jackie, because she’s with Her, but far away from Susie’s husband Bernie, who is a bro. Let speaker Paul sit by himself because no one, on either side of the table, likes him very much anymore.

Discuss football, the weather (but not climate change), music (but not Beyonce or Springsteen, Bon Jovi or Ted Nugent,) and your health (but, yes, not the Affordable Care Act) for as long as you can. (Everything can be prepared and stored up to this point, but will likely seep out anyway while you are cleaning up a mess in the kitchen.)

Combine all the remaining ingredients in a large zipper top bag, forcing the air out, and shake forcefully until everyone has become agitated.

Make sure the smoke alarms are working.

Serves no one.

A recipe for disaster

Last year, the night before Thanksgiving, our oven exploded. That was not in the recipe.

This year, as preparation for the big day, I’ve developed a terrible November cold which has exploded all over my nose and lungs. This, too, was not in the recipe we saw in “Joy of Cooking” nor did we see it in “Joy of Coughing.”

Because, of course, there is no joy in coughing. There is only joy in following a traditional Thanksgiving recipe. Here’s ours.

8 guests, finely shredded by holiday stress

60 years of family history, still stewing

6 cups of procrastination (but if you wait, you might find out that you can make do with 5 cups and stretch it with leftover olives stuck in the back of the fridge.)

4 cups of free-range stalling

2 pints of low-fat dithering

3 pounds of gluten-free complaining

1 gallon of milk, spilled

½ gallon of carpet cleaner, useless

2 pounds of reduced-sodium arguments (it’s OK to use instant — say, over who gets the good cutting knife — but long-simmering arguments are always more flavorful.)

3 liters of recipes that use ingredients and measurements you don’t have.

1 pound of cure (since you forgot the ounce of prevention)

5 tablespoons of mild frustration

3 tablespoons of minced irritation, which is convertible to half a cup of spite.

2 teaspoons of exasperation extract

½ teaspoon of bad timing

¼ teaspoon of frustration

A dash of annoyance

A pinch of reality

***

Pre-heat oven to 400 degrees if it hasn’t exploded yet. Watch out for flames. Mix dry ingredients with torrential rain as everybody arrives. Blend during cocktail hour with an innocuous discussion that doesn’t include politics, religion, sports or the French.

Tell stories about the time Carol’s sister Joan foolishly left the other plastic bag in the turkey and desperately hope that this time you remembered to take the extra plastic bag out.

Test the smoke alarm by sautéing seasonings until they are nice and smoky. If the smoke alarm doesn’t work, leave quickly after calling the fire department.

If it does work, combine the remaining ingredients in a large zipper top bag with cornstarch until you discover you don’t have any cornstarch. Substitute whatever you have that’s white. Beige could work, too.

After 20 minutes, put it all through the food processor. Cook until tender or until you burn yourself trying to read the oven thermometer.

Or call for pizza.

For the perfect holiday meal

Here they are, the 11 easy steps to the No. 1 most popular recipe for the four days of Thanksgiving and the year’s worth of recriminations afterward:

8 guests, including 6 family members, cubed.

60 years of family history, finely sliced.

5 cups of procrastination.

A pint of low-fat stalling.

2 ½ cups of mild frustration.

4 tablespoons of arguing (you can use instant — say, over who gets to control the television remote control when there are multiple football games playing — but long-simmering is always better).

3 liters of irritation, which is convertible to a gallon and a half of spite.

A heap of revenge.

A teaspoon of retribution extract.

A dash of annoyance.

A pinch by Aunt Mildred, preferably on the cheek, but in a pinch, the ear or the bottom will do.

A hint of never again.

Preheat dining room to just about boiling so at least some guests will prefer to go out onto the porch where they can complain about how cold it is and why don’t you get the porch enclosed and heated?

Take all of the ingredients and confine them to a small space for several hours. Mix, putting Aunt Sophie next to Uncle Charlie, and hope for the best, even though the two of them haven’t spoken since that unfortunate incident at Cousin Carol’s wedding.

Combine first three ingredients in a large saucepan that you just remember hadn’t been cleaned since last Thanksgiving. Bring to a rolling boil, which is completely different from a strolling boil, a trolling boil and a lanced boil.

Saute even if you can’t find the accent mark. Cook until there is no liquid left in the pan, which could be 15 minutes or, on the other hand, about an hour and a half. Make a choice. Take a guess.

Meanwhile, in a large zipper-top bag, combine the remaining ingredients with cornstarch, whatever that is, and wherever you put it. After 20 minutes, realize that you don’t have cornstarch in the house although you were absolutely sure you did. But you can use a substitute. Like flour, if you hadn’t run out of that also. Use the spaghetti then, since it’s more or less the same color and that’s all that matters.

Drizzle over your best new clothes, making them fit only for cleaning out the garage, which, thankfully, you have no intention of ever doing.

Sprinkle with sprinkles.

Cook until tender or at least until you can’t remember and decide to do it again next year.