Thankful, Tired, and Slightly Overcooked

The holidays are coming, my patience is leaving, and somebody better bring bourbon.

Every year, right around the beginning of November, I make the same stupid-ass promise to myself. “This year is going to be different. I’m going to slow down. I’m going to enjoy the holidays. I’m going to appreciate the little things, spend quality time with the people I love, and really embrace the magic of the season.” And every year, somewhere around the second week of November, I’m ready to shove a pumpkin so far up somebody’s ass they’ll be coughing up pumpkin spice until Easter. Not one of those cute little pumpkins, either. I’m talking about one of those enormous bastards you see outside the grocery store. The kind that requires two people and a small forklift to get into the back of an SUV.

Ahhh, the holidays.

That magical time of year when everyone is supposed to be cheerful, grateful, generous, and full of goodwill toward their fellow man. Meanwhile, I’m standing in the middle of a grocery store, staring at a display of Christmas decorations that appeared before Halloween was even over, wondering when exactly we decided Thanksgiving was just a speed bump between skeletons and Santa Claus. For goodness sake, can we at least bury the Halloween candy before Mariah Carey starts screaming about what she wants for Christmas?

Apparently not.

Thanksgiving is right around the corner. Christmas is breathing down its neck. New Year’s Eve is lurking in the shadows like a bad decision waiting to happen. And somehow, amidst all of this seasonal bullshit, I’m expected to be thankful, festive, productive, organized, emotionally available, appropriately dressed, and pleasant to strangers.

All while working in the restaurant business.

Somebody pour me a glass of gratitude. Make it a double. And don’t you dare put a cinnamon stick in it.

Welcome to Hospitality. Please Leave Your Common Sense at the Door.

For those of you who don’t know, I spend a significant portion of my waking hours at CJ’s Brewing Company. Actually, at this point, I should probably just have my mail forwarded there. I’m relatively certain the bronze brewing tanks have seen more of me than some of my relatives.

Now, I genuinely love what I do.

I love the people. I love the energy. I love the controlled chaos. I love that feeling when the restaurant is packed, the music is playing, people are laughing, beers are flowing, and everything is firing on all cylinders. But working in the restaurant business during the holidays? That’s a special kind of insanity.

Imagine hosting Thanksgiving dinner for 250 people. Now imagine none of them are related to you, half of them have special requests, somebody is pissed off about something you have absolutely no control over, and at least one person believes that because they’re spending $14.95, they’ve purchased a controlling interest in the establishment.

Welcome to the wonderful world of hospitality. The holidays bring out the absolute best in people. They also bring out the woman who wants her burger cooked well-done but still juicy, the guy who needs six modifications to a menu item he could have simply ordered differently, and the table of twelve who decide they want separate checks after changing seats seventeen times. And let’s not forget the person who waves you over while you’re carrying four plates, only to ask for something that requires a fourteen-minute explanation and a consultation with the United Nations.

I’ve often said that everyone should be required to work in a restaurant for at least six months of their life.

Not because it builds character. Because it would drastically reduce the number of people who behave like assholes in public. You learn very quickly that the people serving your food are human beings, the kitchen is not a magical portal where food instantly appears, and your inability to plan ahead does not automatically constitute an emergency for everyone around you. And for the love of all things holy, if your server asks whether anyone needs anything else, THAT is the time to request your extra ranch. Not seventeen seconds later.

And then another seventeen seconds after that.

And again when they’re halfway across the restaurant.

At some point, just ask for the damn bottle.

We’ll put a nipple on it.

The Holiday Season at CJ’s: Where Everyone Knows Your Name, and Somebody Still Wants More Ranch

Now, before anyone thinks this is turning into an anti-customer manifesto, let me say something. The overwhelming majority of the people who come through our doors are absolutely wonderful.

CJ’s has been part of this community since 1997, and there’s something pretty remarkable about being involved in a place where people have been making memories for nearly three decades. We have regulars who are practically part of the furniture. People who walk through the door and immediately make the entire place feel different. We know their drinks, their favorite seats, their stories, and sometimes far more about their personal lives than any of us ever needed to know. We celebrate birthdays, anniversaries, retirements, promotions, and occasionally the fact that somebody finally got divorced. Sometimes those last celebrations are the biggest.

We watch friendships develop over cold beers and good food. We see families come in together, couples on date nights, and groups of friends who have been telling the same bullshit stories for twenty years. And during the holidays, something shifts. People who haven’t seen each other in months find their way back. Old friends reunite. Families gather. Someone walks into the bar and spots a familiar face they haven’t seen since last Thanksgiving. And suddenly, the place fills with that wonderful, unmistakable sound of people reconnecting.

Laughter.

Stories.

Hugs.

And somebody yelling, “HOLY SHIT, LOOK WHO IT IS!”

That’s the stuff I love. That’s the reason the craziness is worth it. Of course, five minutes later, somebody is asking why their appetizer hasn’t arrived. And the magic is temporarily interrupted.

Meanwhile, at Home, Martha Stewart Has Apparently Possessed the Entire Neighborhood

You would think that after spending so much time managing the chaos of a restaurant, I would come home, pour myself something lovely, put my feet up, and enjoy a peaceful evening.

That’s adorable. Because apparently the holidays also require turning your home into something that looks like it belongs on the cover of Better Homes & Gardens.

There are decorations to drag out, lights to untangle, gifts to buy, menus to plan, and a seemingly endless list of things that absolutely must be accomplished before the first relative walks through the door. Every year, I tell myself I’m going to simplify.

Keep it tasteful.

Elegant.

Understated.

Then I open the first box of decorations and suddenly I’m directing a production of The Nutcracker with a budget that could fund a small school district. And let’s talk about Christmas lights.

Who the hell invented those things? You put them away perfectly organized in January, and eleven months later they come out of storage looking like they’ve been having violent, unsupervised sex with an extension cord. Every strand has somehow tied itself into a sailor’s knot. Half the lights don’t work. And one section blinks for absolutely no reason.

Meanwhile, I’ve got two Yorkies supervising the entire operation like tiny, judgmental building inspectors and a Doberman who thinks every decoration is either a personal invitation or a potential chew toy. Nothing says holiday elegance quite like yelling, “GET THAT OUT OF YOUR MOUTH!” at a dog while holding a strand of lights and wondering whether it’s too early to start drinking.

And then there’s the shopping. Dear God, the shopping. I love giving gifts. I really do. But somewhere along the way, gift-giving turned into an Olympic event. We have wish lists, secret Santas, stocking stuffers, gift exchanges, online orders, shipping deadlines, and that inevitable moment when you realize you forgot somebody and have to decide whether a gas station gift card says “Merry Christmas” or “I barely remembered you existed.”

Thanksgiving Dinner: Forty-Eight Hours of Work, Twenty Minutes of Eating, and Three Days of Regret

Now let’s get to Thanksgiving itself. The holiday where we gather together to celebrate gratitude by preparing enough food to feed the entire population of a small Caribbean island.

I love Thanksgiving. I love the traditions, the smells coming from the kitchen, the anticipation of a good meal, and the excuse to eat carbohydrates in quantities that would alarm a cardiologist. But can we discuss the absolute absurdity of Thanksgiving dinner?

We spend days planning it. We make shopping lists. We fight over refrigerator space. We buy a bird the size of a Buick. We spend hours chopping, mixing, baking, basting, stirring, tasting, and occasionally swearing at inanimate objects.

Then, after two days of preparation, everyone sits down, shovels food into their mouths for approximately nineteen minutes, loosens their pants, and announces that they’re too full to move. Nineteen minutes. That’s it.

You could spend less time assembling furniture from IKEA. And probably use fewer swear words. Then comes the inevitable debate about stuffing versus dressing. Is it made separately? Is it supposed to be moist? Dry? Cornbread? Traditional?

Who gives a shit?

Put some gravy on it and move along. And speaking of gravy… Why is there never enough? You could prepare enough gravy to float a pontoon boat and somebody would still be scraping the bottom of the bowl, asking if there’s more.

And Then There’s the Family…

Ah, yes.

The family Thanksgiving gathering.

That beautiful American tradition where people who love each other come together to eat, drink, reminisce, and occasionally reopen arguments that should have been buried during the Clinton administration.

Every family has its characters. There’s the relative who shows up three hours early and immediately starts offering suggestions. The person who arrives forty-five minutes late carrying a bag of ice like they’ve just returned from a humanitarian mission. The one who insists on discussing politics despite being asked repeatedly not to. The one who drinks two glasses of wine and suddenly becomes an expert on everyone else’s life choices. And, of course, the person who announces they’re “not really hungry” and proceeds to eat enough food to sustain a lumberjack through a Michigan winter. Then there’s the one that is the typical Michigan picky eater and brings their own food to the table… ummm no.

And yet, these are our people. Our beautifully dysfunctional, occasionally irritating, wonderfully imperfect people. The ones who know our stories. The ones who remember us before we had our shit together. And in some cases, the ones who remember exactly how badly we didn’t have our shit together.

They know which buttons to push. They know which stories embarrass us. And for reasons known only to God, they insist on telling those stories in front of people who have never heard them before.

But here’s the thing. As much as we joke about family gatherings, I’ve come to realize that the noise, the interruptions, the stories, and even the occasional arguments are all part of something incredibly precious. Because not every chair around the table stays filled forever. And that changes the way you look at the holidays.

Somewhere Along the Way, Thanksgiving Started Meaning Something Different

When you’re younger, Thanksgiving is mostly about the food. You look forward to the turkey, the mashed potatoes, the pumpkin pie, and whatever family traditions you’ve grown up with. You don’t think much about the work that goes into making those moments happen. You certainly don’t think about how quickly the years pass.

But as you get older, something changes. You start noticing the empty chairs. The people who used to be there. The voices you haven’t heard in a while. The traditions that quietly disappeared because the person who kept them alive is no longer around to do it. And suddenly, gratitude becomes less about what you’ve accumulated and more about what you’ve been fortunate enough to experience.

It’s a strange thing, getting older. You spend the first half of your life trying to get somewhere. Make more money. Get a better job. Buy nicer things. Build a bigger life. Then, one day, you realize the best parts of that life were never the things you bought. They were the people you shared it with.

The ridiculous conversations.

The spontaneous dinners.

The friendships that survived years of nonsense.

The ordinary evenings that didn’t seem particularly important at the time.

Those are the things that stick.

And those are the things I’m most thankful for. Well, those and heated car seats. I’m not a complete idiot.

A Little Gratitude for the People Who Work While Everyone Else Celebrates

Working in hospitality has given me a completely different appreciation for the holidays. While much of the world is planning time off, people in restaurants, bars, hotels, hospitals, retail stores, and countless other industries are preparing to work their asses off. There are cooks who spend Thanksgiving preparing meals for strangers while their own families are eating without them. Servers who work holiday shifts because the bills don’t stop arriving just because the calendar says it’s a special day.

Bartenders who become unofficial therapists for people navigating complicated family dynamics. Dishwashers who spend the evening tackling mountains of plates, pans, and silverware. And managers who spend half the day putting out fires, both figuratively and occasionally in the kitchen.

These people deserve a hell of a lot more appreciation than they usually receive.

At CJ’s, I get to work alongside people who show up, work hard, help each other out, and somehow manage to laugh even when the place is completely upside down. Are we always one big happy family?

Oh, hell no.

We occasionally irritate the living shit out of each other. We’re human. There are disagreements, frustrations, exhausting shifts, and moments when everyone would probably benefit from being placed in separate corners with a juice box and a timeout. But when things get crazy, we pull together.

We get the job done. And more often than not, we find something to laugh about in the middle of it. That means a great deal to me. Because a good team isn’t one where everyone gets along every second of every day.

It’s one where people show up for each other when it matters. And for that, I’m genuinely thankful. I’m also thankful for whoever invented the employee shift drink.

Purely from a historical perspective, of course.

Maybe Gratitude Isn’t Supposed to Be So Damn Complicated

We live in a world where everyone seems to be constantly chasing the next thing.

The next promotion.

The next purchase.

The next vacation.

The next big achievement.

The next perfect photograph to post online so everyone else can see how fabulous our lives supposedly are. And sometimes, we get so caught up in trying to create the perfect life that we forget to enjoy the wonderfully imperfect one we’ve already got.

I’m guilty of it.

I get busy. I get distracted. I get irritated by things that, in the grand scheme of life, don’t mean a damn thing. A bad day at work. A plan that falls apart. A schedule that changes. Somebody leaving an empty carton in the refrigerator. And then something happens that puts it all into perspective. A friend reaches out unexpectedly. Someone tells you they appreciate you. You share a genuinely good laugh with somebody you love.

You come home after a long day, sit down, and realize that despite all the craziness, you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

That’s gratitude. Not the fake, inspirational-quote-on-a-coffee-mug kind of gratitude.

The real stuff. The kind that sneaks up on you when you aren’t paying attention. The realization that your life, however messy, loud, exhausting, and occasionally ridiculous, is filled with things worth appreciating. And let’s face it. If everything were perfect, what the hell would we have to complain about?

So, This Thanksgiving…

I’m not going to promise that I’ll slow down. Because I probably won’t. I’m not going to promise that I’ll be patient with everyone. Because somebody will inevitably test that theory before the turkey even makes it into the oven. And I’m certainly not going to promise that I’ll navigate the holiday season without uttering a few choice words.

That would be completely dishonest.

What I am going to do is make a conscious effort to appreciate the madness. I’m going to be thankful for the busy nights at CJ’s, because they mean people are still choosing to spend their time with us. I’m going to be thankful for our regulars, who have turned a restaurant into a community. I’m going to be thankful for the incredible people I work with, even when we’re all one minor inconvenience away from a collective nervous breakdown.

I’m going to be thankful for my family, my friends, and the people who make my life richer simply by being part of it. I’m going to be thankful for my husband, who gets a front-row seat to the circus and somehow keeps coming back for another performance. I’m going to be thankful for my four-legged lunatics, who provide unconditional love, companionship, and a never-ending opportunity to vacuum. And I’m going to be thankful for every ordinary, imperfect, wonderfully chaotic day that I’m lucky enough to experience.

Because somewhere along the way, I’ve learned something important. A full calendar isn’t always a burden. A noisy house isn’t always a nuisance. A busy restaurant isn’t always a headache. And a life filled with responsibilities, commitments, and people who occasionally drive you absolutely batshit crazy isn’t necessarily a life out of control.

Sometimes it’s simply a life that’s full. And that’s something worth celebrating.

One Last Thought Before Somebody Burns the Rolls…

This holiday season, be kind to people. Seriously. Be kind to your servers. Be kind to your bartenders. Be kind to the people working behind the scenes who are doing their best to make your experience enjoyable. Tip generously when you can. Say thank you. Have a little patience. And remember that the person standing across from you may be having a much harder day than you realize. Be kind to your family, too. Even the annoying ones. Especially the annoying ones.

Because someday, you might find yourself wishing you could hear that same ridiculous story just one more time. Call somebody you haven’t talked to in a while. Tell people you appreciate them.

Laugh loudly.

Eat the pie.

Order another round.

Make memories.

And for God’s sake, put your phone down long enough to actually enjoy the people sitting in front of you. Life moves pretty damn fast.

And as much as I love a beautifully decorated home, a perfectly cooked turkey, and a holiday gathering that looks like something out of a magazine, none of that matters nearly as much as who’s sharing it with you.

So, from my wonderfully chaotic world to yours, Happy Thanksgiving.

I’m thankful for the people I love, the people I work with, the guests who have become friends, the memories we’ve made, and the ones we haven’t made yet.

I’m thankful for the laughter, the lessons, the successes, the spectacular screwups, and all the ridiculous stories that come with them.

And I’m especially thankful that, after all these years, life can still surprise me.

May your turkey be juicy, your gravy plentiful, your relatives moderately well-behaved, and your bartender pour like they actually like you.

May your stretchy pants have plenty of room.

May nobody bring cauliflower masquerading as mashed potatoes.

And may you find a little gratitude buried somewhere beneath the dirty dishes, wrapping paper, holiday schedules, and inevitable family bullshit.

Because at the end of the day, being thankful doesn’t mean everything in your life is perfect.

It means recognizing that even with all the chaos, you’ve got some pretty wonderful things going for you.

And that’s worth raising a glass to.

Happy Thanksgiving, everybody.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a restaurant to help run, holidays to prepare for, dogs to wrangle, decorations to untangle, and approximately forty-seven things on my to-do list.

But first…

WOULD SOMEBODY PLEASE PASS THE DAMN GRAVY?

And don’t forget the ranch. Apparently, we’re going to need a shitload of that, too.