Thanksgiving, Report, Over And Out

I am writing to you from the bedroom that I call The Studio (or Le Studio, should you be of the French persuasion). My studio is like unto a cocoon. A deliciously warm cocoon, with snacks hidden in drawers for emergencies and good tunes and lots and lots of things to get lost in the middle of. It is by far the warmest room in the house. Now, two or three times a day The Holbs will stop by and do this little dance with me, where he turns the heat down and then I get to count to three before turning it back up. Just a little ritual is all. Those three seconds are wherein I acknowledge that my husband is a good man filled with happy intentions and decent motives, but you know it really is too cold outside for that kind of nonsense after all. I mean, this is my place. This is my room and it likes me. The rest of the house is an icebox and that's okay, but the studio is where I come to take my socks off and really get down to business, you know. I like to come in at various times during the day to warm my hands by the heat of the laptop, make a babysuit or two, and to mourn the explosion of mess that can never really be cleaned up because creativity begets mess, you understand. So let's review: heat, blankets, snacks, empty soda cans, Internet connection; I walk in here in the mornings and the room embraces me, my blanket is left in the exact shape on the floor as I left it, surrounding an invisible body that has now returned, and in this way my days all blur together. But doesn't that sound delightful?

But I am getting incredibly off topic. Oh I know, I hadn't really introduced it yet so how can I be off of it already but, okay, here it is: My topic is my Thanksgiving.

Are you still with me?

Picture this if you will, a veritable U.N. of Thanksgivingness: The Smiths, who graciously provided the house and the bird, are immigrants of the Swiss nature. So, Switzerlandian. (They invited us to Thanksgiving and I realized as soon as the words were out of their mouths that the idea of cooking my own Thanksgiving was nigh unto terrifying and so I accepted with much relief.) Then there are the Webbers who are invited as well and are made up of one-part Canadian to one-part Czech (marvelously heavy accent and all). Also invited are Lloyd's graduate engineering students, one from Iran and one from India. The Holbs and yours truly are bringing up the American contingent to this American holiday all on our lonely, which is quite the responsibility, wouldn't you say?

Este had asked me to bring the sides, and so here I am, literally and directly representing my country, the entire thing, coast to coast, through food. Can you imagine such a task?

Naturally, I chose a lot of orange dishes. Thanksgiving is a very orange holiday, isn't it? Here is a sampling of how my afternoon of foreign feasting progressed.

IRANIAN ENGINEERING STUDENT

So . . . is this pumpkin?

AMERICAN FEMALE

Oh, that's squash. Like pumpkin. But, squash.

IRANIAN ENGINEERING STUDENT

Skwashhh??

AMERICAN FEMALE

Uh, yeah. It's a gourd?

IRANIAN ENGINEERING STUDENT

(looks confused)

AMERICAN FEMALE

Would you like to try this instead?

INDIAN ENGINEERING STUDENT

These are pumpkin?

AMERICAN FEMALE

No, these are yams.

INDIAN ENGINEERING STUDENT

Oh. This is cheese on top?

AMERICAN FEMALE

Those are marshmallows.

INDIAN ENGINEERING STUDENT

(blank stare)

AMERICAN FEMALE

Sugar?

INDIAN ENGINEERING STUDENT

(look of understanding, then of concern, followed by waving of hands, international sign for no thanks, looney American.)

Cultural taste buds aside, I think it is safe to say my sides were a hit. They hit with super force strength! Well, I liked them anyway. I kind of felt like a hero if it must be said, an American hero! Where's my purple heart? Gold stars! International diplomacy diploma! cy! But also, it was exhausting, representing your country and making sure you sit up straight and trying to make a good impression on basically all of the entire world. I felt as though the entire international relations in all of Moscow hinged on little old me, and I felt all together too inexperienced to handle such a thing, you know, if it must be said.

I made enough sides to assure us of leftovers for the rest of November and on into December, leftovers being the best part of Thanksgiving after all, hello, and then on Saturday night I received from the Heavens a stroke of bravery and decided to cook us up the baby turkey I had bought back when it was just going to be the two of us. Yes it was bravery, and also but that turkey only had another couple a good days left so why not, you know?

(Raw turkey, I must say, is much more pleasanter than those nasty raw chickens. Would anybody care to explain that?)

While Mr. Turkey roasted up good and juicy I reheated the sides, whipped up some stuffing, and made a little gravy too. And then suddenly it was Thanksgiving again! So, we rolled with it. (I did not make any rolls.)

Thanksgiving Part Deux:

Electric Boogaloo

The Holbs carves the turkey because that seems to be a man's job.

I set the table.

That turkey breast was the best turkey breast I have ever eaten.

This stuffing totally comes from a box.

The feast, ready to eat.

Okay, who am I joking.

Now we're ready to eat.

And it came to pass that it was good. It was all really good. And afterward we sat back and stared at each other, me and The Holbs, shocked by this turn of events. It turns out, I can actually cook! Who could have seen that coming? So we called The Holbsy's parents right quick and invited them for Thanksgiving next year. Because now that I know that I can do it, who's gonna stop me? Huh? Who??

And then I pulled out the Christmas tree. Lovin tradition.

How's that for a happy ending?