Turkey, Tupperware, and Tantrums: The 7 Deadly Sins of Thanksgiving

A survival guide for the true holiday MVPs—the women in aprons, armed with wine, wielding the carving knife, and keeping score.

Thanksgiving isn’t for the faint-hearted, the performative host, or the 24-year-old niece who brings a lentil loaf and an unsolicited lecture about carbon footprints between bites of salad.

No, Thanksgiving is for the real holiday MVPs—middle-aged women who put in the work, judge quietly (but deeply), and plot leftover strategies like national security.

We hold the holiday together in the same pair of stretchy black leggings we swear we’ll replace next year. (We won’t.) But no matter how gracefully we try to float through the cranberry-scented chaos, there are always pitfalls.

Sins, if you will.

So in the spirit of honesty, therapy, and thankfulness for wine, let’s break it down the Seven Deadly Sins of Thanksgiving—a survival guide for women who’ve been there, cooked that, and have the Tupperware to prove it.

Gluttony

Also called “quality control.”

Let’s drop the charade. You made 13 different dishes. You’re going to eat, unlike your brother who’s intermittent fasting and announces his “window” every 15 minutes. You’re a culinary scientist and your job is to sample, test, and adjust each dish.

The mashed potatoes are down two servings before the guests eat. There’s a small crater in the corner of the green bean casserole. And yes, you’ll still eat dinner. And pie. And the broken-off crust from the cornbread because it’s “wasteful” not to.

It’s not gluttony. It’s field research. Calories don’t exist on holidays.

Samples now. Science later.

Wrath

For the brave souls who dare ask if the turkey is “supposed to look like that.”

There are few things quite as dangerous as a middle-aged woman hosting Thanksgiving at peak stress. It’s a quiet, simmering fury, like the gravy you’ve been babysitting for three hours.

The cousin who “forgets” to RSVP but brings eight guests? Noted. The nephew who loudly explains brining to you, as if you haven’t been roasting turkeys since he was in diapers?  Remembered.

But you don’t explode. You smile while offering more rolls. You file every offense into a secret vault. Later it emerges in one “helpful” suggestion: “You should host next year. You have so many great ideas.”

Justice is a dish best served warm.

Preferably at someone else’s dining room table.

Sloth

Exhaustion is earned. Recline like you mean it.

At some point between the third round of dishes and your second glass of Chardonnay, you just … stop. The apron’s off. The bra’s off. Your hair has flattened into a style called “battle fatigue.” You’re one with the couch, a half-asleep cranberry-stained goddess comforted only by decorative pillows and the memory of your meal. You don’t move.

Your digestively challenged father-in-law wanders in and asks, “Hey, where’s the Pepto?” You can only blink once, dismissively wave your hand, and whisper, “I don’t live here anymore.”

It’s not lazy. It’s not slothful. You’re in recovery. Like a culinary war hero recharging for the midnight sandwich rematch. And you’ve earned it.

Pride

Because your tablescape deserves a damn award, and someone better say something.

You handwrote name cards in gold ink. You ironed the tablecloth. And yes, the little acorn-shaped napkin rings were on sale at Michael’s but still count as effort. Yet do you hear any praise? Acknowledgement?

It’s not that you want a medal (you do). You don’t need a standing ovation (you do). You just want one honest, “Wow, this is stunning.” Instead, your family walks past your Pinterest-worthy centerpiece like it’s a dollar store reject and your son uses the corner of his name card as a toothpick.

But pride, like stuffing, is best enjoyed quietly. You know you outdid yourself. One day they’ll realize this wasn’t dinner, it was art.

Too bad they’ll be eating it off paper plates at your sister’s house.

Lust

For bourbon pecan pie, brisket, and literally anyone but your husband if he asks where the extra foil is again.

Thanksgiving is sensual. The smells. The flavors. The textures. Lust is inevitable for the neighbor’s smoked brisket, mashed potatoes with too much butter, and the bourbon pecan pie that makes you moan softly with each bite.

And yes, occasionally for Pete, your cousin’s new boyfriend who helped clean the kitchen without being asked. Who has forearms like a Norse god and can properly pronounce “charcuterie.” You blush. It could be the wine. It could be the oven. It could be Pete. Meanwhile, your husband yells from the living room, “Honey, where’s the foil?” after 22 years of it being in the same drawer.

Don’t feel guilty. Lust is part of the holiday tradition. For potatoes, pie, and Pete—order is subject to change.

Envy

Directed at anyone who shows up with no responsibilities, no apron, and freshly blown-out hair.

There’s always one: a sister-in-law, a cousin, a plus-one brought by your son. She floats in with cashmere unsplattered, nails untouched by pie dough. She smiles with veneered brightness and chirps, “What can I do to help?” while Instagramming your casserole.

She hasn’t chopped, baked, or panicked over basting turkey at midnight because her mother-in-law once implied “dryness.” By dessert, her mascara is intact and she’s declining pie because she’s “full from salad.” You envy her. You want to trip her in the driveway.

But someday she’ll host. And when she does, you’ll stroll in wearing your best sweater, carrying your 5,000-calorie cheesecake, and sigh dramatically, “What can I do to help?”

That’s not envy.

That’s karma.

Greed

You cooked it. You earned it. Don’t test me, Carol.

Family is wonderful. Gratitude is important. But unless you trampled a teenager at Trader Joe’s to get the last bag of fried onions and your skin smells like butter and despair, you don’t own the leftovers. Period.

Yet here comes Carol. With grabby hands and plastic tubs from home, she’s filling her Tupperware halfway through dinner. She eyes the last slice of cheesecake like it’s hers by birthright.

You stop her with a death glare sharp enough to cut Pyrex. The stuffing is yours. The Brussels sprouts are yours. This isn’t greed. It’s reparations.

Carol can go home with a bag of rolls and a side of resentment.

Final Course: I Love You, Now Leave

Thanksgiving isn’t about being perfect. It’s about being present. It’s about laughing when the rolls burn, cursing when the dog steals the ham, and remembering that “family” often just means the people who bring the good wine and don’t flinch when you have pie for breakfast.

So sin boldly. Wear each stain like a battle scar. Enjoy the fruits—and carbs—of your labor.

And if anyone dares to criticize the turkey, your table, or the timing?

Smile sweetly and say, “Bless your heart. Now get the hell out of my kitchen.”