as an alien 'pilgrim', of 10 years, i have successfully secured a seat at the harvest table of many adoptive families keen to break corn bread and take cranberry-jelly-in-a-can communion with me. christmas is another kitchen spectator sport holiday, where "who can drink the most mimosas" is played simultaneously with; "who can aggravate mum the most while she's obsessing about the perpetually undercooked turkey".
i have never cooked something that comes with it's own skeleton inside-- i would rather watch a live lobster witness their final seconds, before plunging to a scalding death, than have to complete a procotology exam on a large, dead bird-- and am as incongruent a fixture amongst kitchen aid and kenmore as i would be dispensing peanuts at 37,000 feet (flight attendants are obviously dipped in shellac before take-off, whether it's long haul or commuter, i always disembark onto the jetbridge looking like i went two rounds with a rabid, industrial fan).
what person, not employed by a restaurant that has more fungus and garden snails than the lake district, spends 6 plus hours standing in a kitchen?
my default is to throw plenty of garlic at everything and crack open another bottle of shiraz. or order the freeze dried astronaut holiday dinner from amazon.com.