December 8, 2005
Jill Brooks, INtake columnist

This is the absolute last holiday season I’m spending alone. My shopping is finished, so I’ve spent the time I saved not waiting in last-minute lines concocting my new year’s resolutions.

A steady boyfriend, cooking lessons and getting to bed at a sensible hour top the list…now I hold out for January 1.

My family, who is collectively much busier than I am, sugarcoats my status “single and carefree” to sweeten their true feelings: “She’s incapable!”

They know I keep a late-night schedule and eat cereal for dinner, so when I ask what I can bring to a family dinner, I get, “Oh, a bottle of wine would be nice, or maybe you can buy a pie” (note that “cook” a pie is not offered).

Last year I was allowed to make the sweet potato casserole. I feel recipes are trifle suggestions, so looking out for everyone’s best waistline, I added only a fourth of the sugar.

When my step-mom passed the sweet potato casserole at dinner this year, I said, “Wait a minute, I could have made that!”

An uncomfortable hush befell the table, and she sweetly said, “It’s OK, we knew you were busy…”

I’m no fool; I know when my sweet potatoes aren’t wanted.

Wonders abound. For the second year in a row I succeeded in the major undertaking of baking two pumpkin pies (please keep in mind, there are many ways to define success).

I shopped for the necessary ingredients: two cans of Libby’s easy pie mix, some form of canned milk and frozen pie crusts.

Apparently, this canned milk phenomenon is important. The “suggestion” calls for evaporated milk. While shopping this year, like last year, the only “fat free” variety of canned milk was, um, I think they call it “condensed.”

It sounded gross, but it was fat free, so I bought it. Close enough.

Before I began cooking (i.e. mixing two cans together) I spoke to my sister, who insisted the two cans were not the same and that I needed to return to the store…for ten ounces of milk (to date, I own four small cans of condensed milk).

Such peccadillos make me begin hating the holidays, reassured that a boyfriend, even a bad one, would somehow make it all better.

Success, in a pie shell: I wrapped them in tinfoil and presented them at Thanksgiving dinner. The edges were burned and the centers were cold, but my family, the dear souls who keep faith in me, wheezed “delicious” behind gritted teeth.