It's that time of year again

For me, the holiday season officially begins the day that Starbucks replaces their usual white coffee cups with seasonal red ones. There are few things that put me in a better mood than the first glimpse of that festively colored cardboard as I step into the coffee shop for my daily Americano. I consider it license to start fantasizing about snowy Sunday afternoons spent baking batch upon batch of cleverly conceived cookies, hand-stamping and liberally be-glittering Christmas cards that I've designed myself, and engaging in an assortment of Martha-approved, holiday-themed craft endeavors, all while listening to Mariah Carey's Christmas album on a loop. Or, my idea of heaven. So imagine my elation when I limped into Starbucks this morning and saw those resplendent cups perched enticingly on the ledge next to the espresso machine, singing me their irresistible siren song. Which sounded a little something like O Holy Night.

If there's one thing I've inherited from my mother, it's her obsessive love of all things Thanksgiving through New Year's. Of course, there are a few key differences. I draw the line at seasonally-inspired sportswear (the last time I checked, Vogue was not advancing the cause of candy cane-printed turtlenecks and tunic sweaters with Christmas tree appliqués and real jingle bells). I do not force all domesticated animals in my presence to wear reindeer antler headbands and holly-themed neckerchiefs. And, where holiday music is concerned, I draw an indelible line at Kenny G. I do not celebrate Michael Bolton's entire catalogue. There's just no reason for that.

Meanwhile, she is considerably less Nazi-like about the season, and does not consider it a personal failure to entertain with frozen vegetables or refrigerated pie crust. I openly admit that I can be a little hardcore. It's a good thing. I have very high standards, and I like to be in charge to ensure that other people are adhering to them. As such, when I am executive chef, you are guaranteed a carefully planned, often themed, usually elaborate meal. After all, nothing's worth doing that isn't worth doing in style. But it can get a little high stress - on occasion, I've been made to have a drink and chill the eff out. That's just how I roll.

But where Thanksgiving with my family is concerned, not only am I not the boss, I barely even get a vote. For years now - literally, years - my brothers, father and I have been campaigning for a fried turkey instead of the usual roasted. If you've ever had fried turkey, then you understand why it's deliciousness has been scientifically proven to exceed that of roasted turkey a minimum of sevenfold. Here's why: before you fry the turkey, you inject it with a syringe full of marinade, rendering it extremely flavorful. The significantly reduced cooking time leaves the interior of the bird incredibly moist, and the hot oil crisps the skin far better than hot air ever could. I realize that deep-frying a turkey that has recently been forcibly freebasing garlic butter is a little bit redneck, but let's call a spade a spade. If, in order to get to the dining room where dinner is being served, your guests must walk through a garage where a recently deceased buck is strung up by its hind legs, exsanguinating into a bucket, you are a redneck. Accept it and fry the damn bird already.

Similar futile battles have been waged over a variety of other dishes. For instance, what on earth is the point of stuffing the turkey when it is a universally accepted fact that the crunchy burnt part of the stuffing is infinitely tastier than the soggy under-layer? And why would you ever put butter on the adults' table but margarine on the kids' table? Do you think we can't tell the difference between the deliciously creamy-sweet-salty dairy treat and the unappealing combination of reconstituted vegetable oil and yellow food coloring? And why, after decades of trial and error, hasn't anyone in my family ever managed to take a damn pecan pie out of the oven before it the crust got burnt and the praline over-caramelized to an unappealing shade of off-black?

At this point, I've learned to pick the battles I can win - last year, my case was convincing enough to turn Christmas Eve dinner from ham (blech, pork that isn't bacon) into a buffet of globally-inspired hors d'ouevres including a charcuterie platter, Tuscan bean dip with crostini, and Jamaican jerk chicken skewers all courtesy of yours truly, because most of my family's idea of an appetizer spread involves Port Wine Wispride, beef stick, and Ritz crackers. So I just shut my mouth, mix up a pitcher of sangria that's light on the juice and heavy on the brandy, and whisk the roux for the gravy because if I don't, it'll be all lumps.

Anyway, despite these minor details, this season is still my very favorite time of year and I am so excited that it is here, not only because it is festive and reminds me of all sorts of wonderful memories from my childhood, but also because it enables me to wear cozy sweaters, live on a diet consisting mainly of variations on soup and grilled cheese sandwiches, and shop until I drop without any guilt because I'm shopping for other people. Having worked retail for so many years you'd think I'd be jaded. But with a few exceptions, I think that people genuinely exhibit more peace and love and generosity and all sorts of other warm fuzzies during the holidays. And every time I see one of those red cups, it makes me smile at the thought of all that good will.