The Thanksgiving Food Fight

Originally published November 2004

The majority of food fights in which I’ve been involved have occurred within two hours of the last button-popping bite of Thanksgiving dinner. Upon reflection there’s no single catalyst that has triggered each of these incidents. But I can say that one of the first warning signs is whipped cream being smeared, lovingly or otherwise, on someone’s nose. It’s not a long trip to cranberry on the walls from there.

Now, I don’t know if I am alone in this admittedly non-traditional Thanksgiving occurrence (and when I say alone I don’t mean my imaginary friends and me lobbing plates of food around the room), but in the off-chance that there are others who either have found themselves in a late November food fight or think they might like to implement a new ritual into their Thanksgiving, let me offer some words of wisdom.

First of all know your company. Anyone you address as “grand” or “great” anything will probably not welcome a yam upside the head, and I have been cut out of enough wills to know whereof I speak. The Thanksgiving Food Fight is almost always a peer-related event, and it’s better that way because if you do it right, when all is said and done, no one’s going to have the energy to go looking for grandpa’s teeth.

Spontaneity is the key to any decent food fight. Even if it has become as integral a part of your Thanksgiving as watching Underdog float around Manhattan, nobody should know when it’s coming. The air may be heavy with anticipation and eyes may dart around the room wondering who will be the first to catch a casserole to the face, but tension only enhances the overall experience. But from an etiquette standpoint, let the host get the first shot in, after all that’s who’s going to be picking oyster stuffing out of the curtains until New Year’s.

Also remember that there are no victims. It’s easy enough to lock yourself in a closet or bathroom until the melee is over. Do not accept dry cleaning bills from anyone involved, no one’s forcing them to participate.

On that same note, don’t wear velvet or silk or, if you must, bring a change of clothes. Preferably dark cotton—bleach and dry cleaners can only be asked to do so much.  And if you are wearing silk or velvet chances are you won’t be wearing that same velvet and/or silk again and I can guarantee you’re not wearing the appropriate foot gear.

Wear pumps to a food fight and you’re taking your life in your own hands. Traction, good traction, is the foundation of a decent food fight offensive, especially when the fight finds its way to the kitchen—and it always does.

When smeared with all the traditional trimmings, tile and linoleum can be your greatest adversaries. When you lose your footing, and you will, try to shield your head on the way down so as to avoid unnecessary contact with countertops, cupboards and corners.

Once on the floor, crawl out of the fray to regain your composure and reload. While crawling keep one hand on the back of your pants, because the last thing you want is someone with a fistful of spinach casserole grabbing you with their free hand and giving you a pureed-vegetable atomic wedgie. But should it happen, I have the number of a good therapist.

Know ahead of time that your hair will NEVER be the same. All the wishful thinking in the world won’t make onion dip mixed with pecan pie a good conditioner. And be prepared to spend a substantial amount of time restoring your hair to its natural state of being. Dried food and hair are a tenacious team. Patience, hot water and good karma are your only hope.

So when the refrigerator is empty, the table is trashed and none of the furniture is in its original position congratulate yourselves on a job well done. Then high-tail it the hell out of there before somebody hands you a sponge and a bottle of 409. If it’s your house, well, I hope you had fun, because your two best options are moving or a flame thrower.