“Wait….. I know this…..Thanksgiving…..so is that like with the cowboys, and the indians……right?”
And it was up to me to shatter their dreams.
“Not quite.” Was all I could muster, eying the can of Pringles someone had brought along as a contribution to our Thanksgiving Feast.
I suppose that was an improvement to the flat next door that turned up with a handful of plates insisting that I had said in the invitation to, “Bring a dish”.
Which, to be fair…I suppose I had…cheeky Brits.
I felt it my moral obligation to spread the word of the Yanks, peace, justice, goodwill toward men, and basically I just wanted an excuse to stab a knife into that pumpkin that had been sitting on our window ledge for far too long.
Pumpkin Pie just waiting to happen.
The day before the feast I decided it probably a practical idea to plan my menu, taking advantage of a horribly drab International Relations lecture on the nuclear dimension of contemporary war to get a game plan. Leaving the entire lecture hall seated behind me drooling as I surfed the web for the supreme apple crisp recipe.
Six hours and three grocery stores later, I lugged my many many multiple bursting brown bags up the steps, round the corner, and into the kitchen where I remained for the next twenty four hours.
I’d reserved the morning for pies, and I’d reserved my flatmates for peeling: potatoes, pumpkins, apples, butternut squash.
I’d contemplated a Thanksgiving Dinner Draft, but dismissed that plan on account of it not really fitting into the spirit of things, mandatory lettuce washing and all. Instead I resorted to merely wailing desperately every time a victim entered the kitchen, “HOW ON EARTH IS ANYTHING GOING TO GET DONE ON TIME???……….”
It proved effective as my flatmates harbor unique talents of picking up subtlety.
However I found with this tactic that they all tended to stay in their rooms starving themselves the entire afternoon, for fear of being allocated a duty dare they enter the kitchen to grab a breadcrumb, or two.
Susanna, pleading for mercy and camped out on the couch, exhausted by my slave driving tactics in order to create the most perfect, harmonious, idyllic Thanksgiving Dinner on the face of Flat Two!
But fear not, don’t allow yourselves to be deceived by that plastic bag in the picture, everything was, as can be assumed, grown, harvested, and prepared by *cough cough* yours truly. From ground to table. With MAYBE the slightest of detours through a supermarket aisle in between…
Susanna and Sarah, doing a wonderful job of pretending to be having fun.
And thus it began.
Everything at once. The oven was beeping, the fridge was humming loudly, the stovetop was boiling over, and the microwave was making never before heard sounds not unlike the Philharmonic Orchestra with a slightly more techno edge to it.
But this was not the time to sit and wonder.
It was the time to bake, and stir, and cook, and taste, and grate, and peel, and season, and mix, and pull things out of the oven, and rotate pots on the burners, and turn down the heat, and open the fridge, and peel off wrappers, and somehow…
Green Beans with Apple Cider, Mashed Potatoes with Butternut Squash, Brown Sugared Sweet Potato Yams, Dinner Rolls, Cranberry Sauce, Stuffing, A Green Salad, An Apple Crisp with Vanilla Ice Cream and Two Pumpkin Pies.
If desired, one can memorize the aforementioned feast and repeat in alphabetical order, backwards, for entertainment on long car rides.
For the record, there’s about twenty witnesses the skeptics can contact.
I don’t have a photo, but I can tell you this; It was good, and it got eaten.
And we sat around the table and all tried to act as American as possible, this was achieved mainly by using the terms, “dude” and “gnarly” at frequent intervals, and emphasizing how the man was holding us down, and how the Fourth of July was by far our favorite holiday.
In what was probably the most unconventional Thanksgiving ever.