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I can officially start to obsess. It’s November and this will be the first Thanksgiving and mainstream holiday that I host my Husband’s parents in my house. Now, don’t get me wrong. I invited my new in-laws and I’m glad they’re making the trip from Memphis. They aren’t the scariest part. I’m most worried about creating optimum conditions for holiday cheer. Even though I know it’s not my responsibility to keep everyone happy (but, everyone should be smiling all the time), my hostess anxiety has already set in. It’s the pressure to create the perfect Hallmark moment without drinking myself silly.

If you’re a woman, I know you can relate.

When I’m feeling brave and mature, I like to tackle my troubles head on and make an event out of confronting them. So, I decided the best way to ease my jitters was to buy myself my first Big Girl apron. Really, one must start with the basics. It seemed obvious to me that what I needed most was the proper garment for splashing gravy and smearing whipped potatoes on. I wanted something girly that says I’m fun and oh so adorable , but also identifies me as the authority in the kitchen. Maintaining proper control comes second to promoting good spirits.

It’s the pressure to create the perfect Hallmark moment without drinking myself silly.

Izzy, you sound terribly insecure. Perhaps, but I’m a new stepmom and first time daughter-in-law! I’ve got something to prove. My own mother tells me this is ridiculous. “You’ve watched too many of those stupid holiday movies where everything goes wrong.” But, then she concedes that if there weren’t any truth to these tired plot lines, the studios wouldn’t keep making them. Plus, she’s not going to be here! None of the guests at my table will be blood relatives who love me and my sweet potatoes unconditionally.

So, there. Let’s get back to my apron and dressing for a successful T-day. But, before I go any further, I want you to promise me that you will not do what I did. Promise me.

I went to Anthropologie. Don’t do this. If you are not familiar with this store, I advise you to investigate this delightful treasury with caution. I love this place and equally loathe it. It’s pricey and everything (yes, practically everything) I want. I’ve made a dreary habit of walking through its maze of exotic clothing cooing “pretty, pretty, pretty” under my breath, lightly touching every textured layer, button and underskirt I encounter. I almost always leave empty-handed, shuffling out the door into the cold like an orphan.

But, not this time. I knew they carried vintage aprons and I wasn’t leaving without one. I was focused on this one task when I went through the front doors, and then I fell apart. My vision had been so half-baked. Thanksgiving theatrics require much more than an apron. Suddenly, I was grabbing an autumn scented candle (currently burning on my coffee table), a gravy boat (I was incomplete without one), a turkey stovetop timer (or the bird will burn) and frosted wine goblets (with a reindeer scene).

I am not proud of my actions. Would I do it again? I can be parked and meet you in the holiday wares section in 15 minutes.

My skirt apron is crimson red with muted violet flowers, a white ruffle hem and paisley embroidery. It has a small pocket, I think for lozenges or pistachios. It’s sure to impress. It’s cute with a capitol C. In fact, the cashier told me that Austin’s fashion elite are buying the full aprons “in droves” and wearing them as dresses over jeans.

My holiday vision had been so half-baked.

Now that my holiday outfit is handled (except for accessories), I can move on to larger issues- like the menu. Thanksgiving may be the most basic meal in the book, but lest you forget I’m entertaining Southern folk. It wasn’t until very recently that I learned about the peach cobbler and Mac and cheese tradition. Yes, I’m embarrassed by my ignorance. I have no excuse for this.

There will be the obvious dishes, of course, but I hope to jazz up the feast and show off a bit. For example, I’d like to prepare my grandmothers pumpkin pie with graham cracker praline crust. And Nigella Lawson’s Chocolate Gingerbread, which isn’t customary, but is seriously the most rich and gooey slab of pleasure I’ve ever had (it calls for nearly a cup of black molasses). I could leave my husband for it. And never look back.

As for the rest, I’m on a search for the Thanksgiving recipes that will elevate my daughter-in-law status to dizzying heights (like the warm apricot-cranberry sauce I just spotted in Real Simple). It’s barely into the first week of November. I have the whole month to obsess. I’m sure you’ll be hearing about it.

Image courtesy of The Food Network