A Word About Thanksgiving
I would like to say a word about Thanksgiving. I know that it already well into December - shut up. I don't harbor any illusions about keeping a detailed record of my life. Sometimes I fall behind. Sometimes I leave things out. But I did not want to leave out Thanksgiving, not in the wretched year of 2009.
In all fairness, 2009 is not quite so bad at 2008. At this time last year, I was waiting for my cat to die. But Thanksgiving marks the beginning of the Holidays, all winter cheer and tables full of food, and my life is still in boxes. My life is likely to remain in boxes until March. And so, for the first year in living memory, J and I did not cook anything on Thanksgiving. We went to visit my co-worker and her friends for an early meal, where J carved the turkey and made some emergency gravy while the rest of us pondered which one of our co-workers at the Mysterious Workplace we would eat in the event of an apocalypse that drove us to cannibalism. Sorry, Vegan Pacifist Co-worker, you will be the first to fall. We snuck out before dessert so that we might still have room left over for Thanksgiving Part II, which was to take place at the bartender's apartment and for which we also did not cook a single damned thing, not even soup, because we don't know where the stick blender is.
The bartender's house makes me sad, not because of the places where the ceiling is threatening to cave in and crush us all, which certainly upsets the bartender, but because it serves to remind me that J and I are unable to host Thanksgiving. This is the table where we are not serving food. These guests are not sprawled across my living room. J and (mostly J) I have not toiled in the kitchen all day. This is not my tableware, which weirdly upsets me more than anything because last year I'd finally bought a proper gravy boat and now my gravy boat is wrapped in newspaper, sitting in a cardboard box somewhere in Oakland, unused and unloved.
The bartender's Thanksgiving dinner is almost entirely catered by T, who has planned this dinner with the kind of precision one normally one might expect for the landing of a Mars rover. She has made individually-roasted squabs for all twenty-something of us. While I myself am not a squabavore, I deeply admire the scope of her ambition. T's vision for this dinner is gloriously over-the-top. She has pickled pears months in advance. She has soaked raisins in rum. There is a wild rice stuffing and brussels sprouts that I think have been cooked in bacon fat and beets (glorious beets!) and a lot of brightly-colored roasted root vegetables and nearly as many pies as there are guests. I eat until I am ready to explode, then I pause for cheese and nitrous and feeding tiny little bits of chicken to K's itty bitty dog. I returned to the Fallback Position dizzy and tipsy and full, resolved to change in order to go dance on a box at MEAT, and promptly fell asleep on the couch.
I should be thankful to eat delicious food in the company of witty and charming people (and a very small dog). And I have to admit that for a little while, I was happy and pleased, but it's just a thin coat of happiness around a bitter chewy center. I miss my Bunker. I want it back.
In all fairness, 2009 is not quite so bad at 2008. At this time last year, I was waiting for my cat to die. But Thanksgiving marks the beginning of the Holidays, all winter cheer and tables full of food, and my life is still in boxes. My life is likely to remain in boxes until March. And so, for the first year in living memory, J and I did not cook anything on Thanksgiving. We went to visit my co-worker and her friends for an early meal, where J carved the turkey and made some emergency gravy while the rest of us pondered which one of our co-workers at the Mysterious Workplace we would eat in the event of an apocalypse that drove us to cannibalism. Sorry, Vegan Pacifist Co-worker, you will be the first to fall. We snuck out before dessert so that we might still have room left over for Thanksgiving Part II, which was to take place at the bartender's apartment and for which we also did not cook a single damned thing, not even soup, because we don't know where the stick blender is.
The bartender's house makes me sad, not because of the places where the ceiling is threatening to cave in and crush us all, which certainly upsets the bartender, but because it serves to remind me that J and I are unable to host Thanksgiving. This is the table where we are not serving food. These guests are not sprawled across my living room. J and (mostly J) I have not toiled in the kitchen all day. This is not my tableware, which weirdly upsets me more than anything because last year I'd finally bought a proper gravy boat and now my gravy boat is wrapped in newspaper, sitting in a cardboard box somewhere in Oakland, unused and unloved.
The bartender's Thanksgiving dinner is almost entirely catered by T, who has planned this dinner with the kind of precision one normally one might expect for the landing of a Mars rover. She has made individually-roasted squabs for all twenty-something of us. While I myself am not a squabavore, I deeply admire the scope of her ambition. T's vision for this dinner is gloriously over-the-top. She has pickled pears months in advance. She has soaked raisins in rum. There is a wild rice stuffing and brussels sprouts that I think have been cooked in bacon fat and beets (glorious beets!) and a lot of brightly-colored roasted root vegetables and nearly as many pies as there are guests. I eat until I am ready to explode, then I pause for cheese and nitrous and feeding tiny little bits of chicken to K's itty bitty dog. I returned to the Fallback Position dizzy and tipsy and full, resolved to change in order to go dance on a box at MEAT, and promptly fell asleep on the couch.
I should be thankful to eat delicious food in the company of witty and charming people (and a very small dog). And I have to admit that for a little while, I was happy and pleased, but it's just a thin coat of happiness around a bitter chewy center. I miss my Bunker. I want it back.