swig o' bourbon

I vowed at this time last year that I would be spending my next Thanksgiving at home with my family where I belonged. Now that I’m doing precisely that, part of me can’t help but miss the ramshackle, make-do, shoddy attempt at celebrating this high holiday abroad. There’s something fun and platonically romantic about making shit work - especially when one’s surroundings don’t cooperate. Turkeys aren’t available? Cranberries can’t be found? Pumpkin pie is a no go? I have to make pudding pie with speculoos cookies instead of graham crackers? We’re going to carry this pot of half-cooked mashed potatoes on the tram? No chairs? No table? Work ends at 10.00 pm? We don’t have an oven?

Let’s make it happen.

Last year’s debacle had many, many contenders for best WTF Are We Doing Moment, including but not limited to the fact that my cooking partner in crime was in fact British, but I think top honors go to two Bordelais moments:
Laura cooking two chickens in a toaster oven and then transporting them via bicycle to cook further at Kate’s apartment, where they didn’t fit and had to be done diagonally.
Kate purchasing, obtaining, and hauling a king-sized French toaster oven on the tram for Thanksgiving dinner. A miracle if ever there were one. We sat things on top of said toaster in lieu of a microwave. It was awesome.

I really out-mom’ed myself last year and asked all of my Thanksgiving victims participants to go around and say something for which they were thankful. Much to my surprise, no one griped, and it merely enhanced the evening. We all got drunk in peace. I remember what I said then, and I’d like to repeat it now.

Last year, this year, and every year:

I am grateful for finding family wherever I go.

I mean it. While there may only be three places regularly set at my mom’s table, my family is so much bigger.

Thank you for being part of it.
love,
anya

(stolen from Laura)