Monday, November 21, 2005

Remember me? I know I'm in a bad way when my only recent comment is Mieke, giving me grief for not writing.  I've said this before, I'll say it again:  if you could only read the inside of my brain. I promise, you'd be impressed.  Here's what's in there, of late... Ok, it's actually not that impressive. What's in there right now is my menu for Thanksgiving. I love Thanksgiving. I think I've even blogged about this before.  [Having just checked my own archives, nope.  Haven't. I'm surprised, actually...] For many years, after moving to California, and before, in both Washington, DC and in NYC, I loved to host either solo or with friends or roommates, big orphans' dinners--meaning, of course, that anyone without family summoning them home could gather at my place and feast and imbibe and enjoy. The holiday was a big part of cementing the central emotional core of my twenties, which was the sense that as adults, we are able to choose a family of friends who will sustain us, celebrate with us, in the blecchy times and in the great ones.  When I came to L.A., the east coast tradition continued, with dinners sometimes of more than twenty people, even when I lived in pretty small digs.  I always made the turkey, with a cornbread stuffing recipe from the Silver Palate cookbook (which I am, of course, adapting this year,  a little of this, a little of that, but still quite similar to theirs), I always made great mashed potatoes (I make really great mashed potatoes), I always made at least one pie, and my darling Leslie always made her famous, deservedly, sweet potato pie.  (I am one of the few people on earth to have her recipe, because I'm special. To her, anyway.)  Being hideously single for many, many years (pretty much my entire twenties, with brief and uninspiring flings providing the only relief), these dinners made me feel loved, and gave me a sense of family that was pretty much otherwise missing.  When the H and I got together, the dinners continued, for a while.  Actually, he first met (and quickly alienated--but again, that's another story) many of my dearest friends at Thanksgiving dinner exactly ten years ago.  After we married, I found myself in the midst of his family, many of whom live here in L.A.  It's one of the things I love and loved about him--having virtually no family of my own, really just my own mother, his assorted aunts and uncles and half brothers and step cousins felt like a big messy sweater I could disappear into.  But of course, there's a trade off--you can't control the holidays. Not any of them.  And, as it turns out, after all those years of gathering my created family around me--I am a massive control freak when it comes to Thanksgiving. Two years ago was the low point. I pitched a huge fit--I didn't want to go to his (wonderful) aunt's house for Thanksgiving; I didn't want our  holiday overwhelmed by her large, extended family.  I wanted my stuffing, my pies.  I was hysterical and kind of horrible about it, and the H told me so, but I managed to get my way and commandeer the hosting of the big feast.  Everyone would come to us.  The menu was mine to orchestrate. I'm convinced that the epic, high fever, delirious virus that struck all (then) three of us down six days before the holiday was entirely due to my, and karma, being a bitch.  I had to cancel our Thanksgiving dinner (uninviting friends and family in the process.)  Our celebration consisted of reheated leftovers left on our (infectious) doorstep by one of my darling (hastily uninvited) friends, eaten while watching "Monsters Inc." with our feverish, monstrous toddler--for the twelfth time in half as many days.  We reap what we sow, baby. Last year, I let go.  I was pregnant.  We had just moved to our new house.  I couldn't even pretend that I could handle hosting the holiday, and so I let myself enjoy a Thanksgiving not of my own design.  The universe got a last laugh in:  when I asked for a dish to bring, to contribute to the dinner, I was assigned---salad.  (I make a f'in great salad, but still.  Salad. )  But to my amazement (for I was bitter even as we headed out the door for the long drive to Topanga) I had a great time.  I laughed at family gossip.  I didn't have to clean up.  My kid watched "Finding Nemo" and did flying gymnastics with his step cousins, and had a blast.  We drove home, in a deep quiet dark, sated, happy. This year, it's here.  Aunts, uncles, boyfriends, orphans, you name it. They're all coming. There will be (approximately) fifteen of us--smaller than usual, for this crew.  The wine is bought, the turkey is in the fridge, the stuffing and sweet potatoes are already made and in the freezer ready to be resurrected. And so I'm thinking a lot about what I'm thankful for.  My family.  My beautiful, funny, loving children.  My crazy, passionate, talented, exasperating husband.  All the people who let me screw up, over and over and over again, and keep taking me back.  Maybe it's because I'm a really, really good cook.  9:19:11 PM     comment [] trackback []