Well the party's over, and by all accounts it was a big success.
As soon as my gremlin brother-not-in-law sends me his photos, I will post a dazzling gallery of faces and food porn. We have some pics of the turkey getting stuffed that I'm not sure I can put up for public viewing. C's dad put it quite clinically: "Regarde la dinde, Pie," he exclaimed as Cami held the bird's legs open, "it look like a horse vagina." A vet by profession, he should know.
We ate ourselves sick. We drank many, many bottles of wine. Everyone got along.
So here I am in bed at 3:56 pm the day after. I did not make it to the gym or to my internship at the library. A few hours ago, my mother drove by to drop off the cell phone I'd forgotten at her house, and presented me with a box full of food. Four pints of ice cream. Mashed sweet and white potatoes. Maple-glazed brussels sprouts and brown sugared baby carrots. Miss P's bourbon pecan and pumpkin pies (oh, miss p. your pies bring the boys to the YARD). Hayati's lebanese sweets, which we hid so well they didn't even make it out to the dessert table. All of the nibbliest leftovers are now chez nous, and Judge Judy is on TV and I am alone in the apartment, naked because I only got as far as taking off my pajamas in an effort to get up and out.
In the morning, Mr. A and I will run around the park whilst listening to Madonna, and then I will spend six hours writing one of the four library school papers that are due in the next two weeks. I will pay my bills and get fresh air and return emails and eat cucumber slices.
For now, however, publishing this post is as productive as I can imagine myself to be.
It's hard to believe that almost a year ago the Pie and her Cami made Thanksgiving dinner in Paris, stuffing veal sausage up the ass of this obscene French dinde.
This year, the turkey will come from the Park Slope Food Co-op, where hordes of Brooklyn hipsters will file in this weekend, toddlers in tow, to claim their holiday tofurkeys and organic heirloom birds. The lines will be long. "Cashiers" will be overwhelmed. As always, parents will let their three year olds make all the executive decisions. What kind of stuffing should we have, Dakota? Do you want cornbread stuffing? What kind of greens do you want? Kohlrabi or chard?
We're having the dinner at my mom's house, and C's family will be there, along with a handful of great friends. This is the first time our parents will meet since we started seeing each other over seven years ago. Have you ever heard the one about the neurotic, bohemian New Yorker and the refined, epicurean Latin/Europeans brought together over Thanksgiving dinner with their lesbian daughters? Now you have! Add a bottle and a half of wine per person to the mix and I think a good time will be had by all.
What are your Thanksgiving plans? Is anyone still out there?