well, I could make a turkey. Because it's, you know, Thanksgiving. Or we could all go out.

Aah, Thanksgiving! Time of customs, reminiscences, nostalgia, gatherings, family present or absent, fatigue. Speaking of customs and nostalgia, see below: I'm reposting my take on holiday customs. Cheers!

I've loved making holiday dinners, to the point of being happily breathless when dinner's over and the floor is covered with paper, the furniture is adorned with food-based fingerprints as yet unknown to any juvenile authority, and the couches are upholstered with immovable football statisticians in snoring coma (a congenital condition attached to the Y chromosome).... well, there's a lot to be said for the gradual erosion of at least some cherished family traditions. 

This year I'm not making dinner - the group is too small and we'd be living on leftovers until next spring. So I have made (gasp!) reservations. And a very very happy Thanksgiving to you all.

BUT ANYWAY:

Our family is delightfully multi-cultural (but you knew that), so perhaps some of these traditional events may have once been yours, too:

THE FIVE TANTRUMS OF THE IN-LAWS

THE OH, SO MERRY MERRY SEATING REARRANGEMENT (an all-American folk dance)

THE RITUAL RECITATION OF FOOD ALLERGIES AND DIETETIC SENSITIVITIES  (often but not always a responsive reading)

THE MEAL-TIME VISIT OF THE BALD UNCLE WHO NEVER BRINGS PRESENTS

um, not exactly our house

THE FOUR MULTI-CULTURAL QUESTIONS:

-- is there garlic in this?  
        -- she puts garlic in everything

-- is there garlic in this?  
         -- I can taste the garlic

-- is there garlic in this?   

        -- anyone can taste the garlic in this

-- is there garlic in this?  
        -- I don't know why noone else can taste the garlic 

THE CRUEL BUT NECESSARY REVISITING OF FAMILY RECIPES FROM GENERATIONS PAST 
(included here: deafening resumptions of the Lard/Chicken Fat Feud and the Great Butter/Olive Oil Vendetta)

THE LOUD AND PERSISTENT INTERROGATION OF SINGLE WOMEN ABOUT THEIR LIVING ARRANGEMENTS

THE DISSERTATION AND DISPUTATION CONCERNING THE PROVENANCE AND EVENTUAL DISPOSITION OF THE HOLIDAY SILVER AND SERVING DISHES 
              (a sharing of memories of the sacrifices made by our or your or 
               someone's ancestors to provide the ungrateful & unappreciative 
               with a complete service for 12 plus bread-and-butter plates &
               2 extra cups, which will pass to the one descendant who really  
               truly - trust me - doesn't want them)

THE DEPARTURE BEFORE DESSERT OF THE SILENT COUSIN WHO ARRIVES ALONE, WITHOUT GIFTS.

THE DARING MAN TO MAN CHALLENGE, in which the World's Greatest Expert on Everything explains in great detail, mispronouncing all names, how wars should be won, to Gallant Nephew who is just back from Afghanistan and doesn't like loud noises. Also known as the Familial Duck and Cover.

THE ORGAN RECITAL OF THE COMATOSE SPORTS FANS (featuring Uncle *** on the nose flute and Grandpa ### on the intestinal tympani)

Anything ring a bell?

Happy Thanksgiving, all!

Here follows a re-post - we arrived back from Seattle Monday night, the groceries and turkey arrived on Tuesday, and it's been just a little hectic. Enjoy -- I'm especially thinking of my sister because she can't be with us this year. If the weather allows, I'll bring her a drumstick over the weekend.

With the approach of Thanksgiving, my thoughts turn to my little sister, because one thing for which I'm always thankful is my sister's approach to life. She just keeps on. She showed her early promise the year my parents agreed to have Thanksgiving dinner at my aunt's (Pop's older sister, to be precise). To their dying day they quarreled about who had consented to go, each blaming the other, but we went. Aunt Clarabelle was the worst cook in the family and everyone knew it.

For a 9-year-old and a 6-year-old, the whole trip meant agony - no comfy corduroy pants that could be thrown in the wash after a busy morning peeling things, no goofy table decorations, no wonderful smells from the kitchen, no lazing around on the floor watching the parade. None of Mom's ineffable gravy. No secret recipe yummy stuffing. No, no, no. The morning was spent in hair agony, Mom having decided that her sister-in-law should see us at our cutest, girliest worst. This meant long hair cylinders, that is, sausage curls, and big bows. My scalp has never forgiven her. While she was working on Little Clotilde, I brushed out my cylinders, not realizing that while the brushing might get rid of the sausages, it wouldn't make my hair go back to its normal stick-straight flatness. The sausages were replaced by something that stood up straight and - "You look like shrubbery," said Little Clotilde. I may have been hoping that if I looked weird enough Mom would leave me home.

random eBay offering of old
pic of patient little girl with sausage curls

Plaid dresses, Mary Janes, tights, ribbons all duly applied, a few cruel rubber bands and a lot of Brilliantine on me, we trudged out to the car. Pop was optimistically checking for flat tires, loose rim, broken tail lights. "Any cop who has to work today will be in a lousy mood," he explained. "I'd rather stay home than get into it with some $&@!?%## over nothing."

Alas, the car was fine. "We who are about to die salute you," Pop declaimed as he opened the doors for his ladies. And off we went to the land of pink silk lampshades and plastic slipcovers.

Pop wrinkled his nose as we stepped indoors, nothing smelled bad, but there weren't any enticing aromas either. I thought I detected Lemon Pledge. It's a bad sign when a meal is being cooked and the family dog chooses to hang out in front of the television.

The grown-ups were issued teeny cocktails, and Little Clotilde and I were offered a choice of ginger ale or prune juice. Aunt Clarabelle was a devoted reader of magazines, and she shared the information that the shortcut turkey tips, the stuffing recipe, and the creatively approached side dishes were all new to the repertoire this year. Pop looked around for a larger glass, humming. "Are you humming?"

"Oh, sorry, a tune from some opera just popped into my head and now I can't get rid of it, you know how it is..." Pop had a wicked grin that we always looked forward to, here it was and Little Clotilde and I were almost dancing with anticipation.

"Don't fidget, girls, what opera?"

"Ah, Donizetti!  - ah - the magnificent Lucrezia --"

At that moment Mom grabbed us by the elbows, one a side, and bustled us to the pink-and-gold powder room to wash our hands. She used the privacy to remind us again that we were guests, we would mind our manners, we would not poke one another, we would try to eat what was put in front of us without making awful noises, and each of us would find something nice to say or allowances would be withheld.

Aunt Clarabelle had been putting finishing touches on her platters and apparently Uncle Er wasn't an opera-lover, for no one seemed to have taken offense at Pop's humming, and we were waved over to the table. Silver was gleaming, dishes were shining, laden with - hard to tell. I recognized celery and olives and a bowl of throbbing homemade cranberry relish.

At the sideboard Uncle Er was trying to subdue a burnt pelican, which despite being dead, was fighting back.

Meaningful glare from Mom - my turn to say something nice. "What a pretty table!"

And now for Little Clotilde: Big smile, cute little arms held out wide, "OHBOYOHBOY! Everything I don't like!"

This is a good place to stop.

Oh, right, Uncle Er. He disliked the name his parents had given him and chose one he liked better as soon as he could. Pop considered this ridiculous and refused to indulge Er by calling him by his new name, and Er refused to answer to the old one. To keep the peace, Pop just called him Er, and we children respectfully called him Uncle Er.

Just curious -- who holds the title of
Worst Cook in your house?

Thanksgiving memories: vampire pelican chez Aunt Clarabelle

dear Mr. Addams, how did he know?

With the approach of Thanksgiving, my thoughts turn to my little sister, because one thing for which I'm always thankful is my sister's approach to life. She just keeps on. She showed her early promise the year my parents agreed to have Thanksgiving dinner at my aunt's (Pop's older sister, to be precise). To their dying day they quarreled about who had consented to go, each blaming the other, but we went. Aunt Clarabelle was the worst cook in the family and everyone knew it.

For a 9-year-old and a 6-year-old, the whole trip meant agony - no comfy corduroy pants that could be thrown in the wash after a busy morning peeling things, no goofy table decorations, no wonderful smells from the kitchen, no lazing around on the floor watching the parade. None of Mom's ineffable gravy. No secret recipe yummy stuffing. No, no, no. The morning was spent in hair agony, Mom having decided that her sister-in-law should see us at our cutest, girliest worst. This meant long hair cylinders, that is, sausage curls, and big bows. My scalp has never forgiven her. While she was working on Little Clotilde, I brushed out my cylinders, not realizing that while the brushing might get rid of the sausages, it wouldn't make my hair go back to its normal stick-straight flatness. The sausages were replaced by something that stood up straight and - "You look like shrubbery," said Little Clotilde. I think I was hoping that if I looked weird enough Mom would leave me home.

random eBay offering of old
pic of patient little girl

Plaid dresses, Mary Janes, tights, ribbons all duly applied, a few cruel rubber bands and a lot of Brilliantine on me, we trudged out to the car. Pop was optimistically checking for flat tires, loose rim, broken tail lights. "Any cop who has to work today will be in a lousy mood," he explained. "I'd rather stay home than get into it with some $&@!?%## over nothing."

Alas the car was fine. "We who are about to die salute you," Pop declaimed as he opened the doors for his ladies. And off we went to the land of pink silk lampshades and plastic slipcovers.

Pop wrinkled his nose as we stepped indoors, nothing smelled bad, but there weren't any enticing aromas either. I thought I detected Lemon Pledge. It's a bad sign when a meal is being cooked and the family dog chooses to hang out in front of the television.

The grown-ups were issued teeny cocktails, and Little Clotilde and I were offered a choice of ginger ale or prune juice. Aunt Clarabelle was a big reader of magazines, and she shared the information that the shortcut turkey tips, the stuffing recipe, and the creatively approached side dishes were all new to the repertoire this year. Pop looked around for a larger glass, humming. "Are you humming?"

"Oh, sorry, a tune from some opera just popped into my head and now I can't get rid of it, you know how it is..." Pop had a wicked grin that we always looked forward to, here it was and Little Clotilde and I were almost dancing with anticipation.

"Don't fidget, girls, what opera?"

"Ah, Donizetti!  - ah - the magnificent Lucrezia --"

At that moment Mom grabbed us by the elbows, one a side, and bustled us to the pink-and-gold powder room to wash our hands. She used the privacy to remind us again that we were guests, we would mind our manners, we would not poke one another, we would try to eat what was put in front of us without making awful noises, and each of us would find something nice to say or allowances would be withheld.

Aunt Clarabelle had been putting finishing touches on her platters and apparently Uncle Er wasn't an opera-lover, for no one seemed to have taken offense at Pop's humming, and we were waved over to the table. Silver was gleaming, dishes were shining, laden with - hard to tell. I recognized celery and olives and a bowl of throbbing homemade cranberry relish. At the sideboard Uncle Er was trying to subdue a burnt pelican, which despite being dead, was fighting back.

Meaningful glare from Mom - my turn. "What a pretty table!"

And now for Little Clotilde: Big smile, cute little arms held out wide, "OHBOYOHBOY! Everything I don't like!"

This is a good place to stop.

Oh, right, Uncle Er. He disliked the name his parents had given him and chose one he liked better as soon as he could. Pop considered this ridiculous and refused to indulge Er by calling him by his new name, and Er refused to answer to the old one. To keep the peace, Pop just called him Er, and we children respectfully called him Uncle Er.

the most important thing... and a preview of Christmas dinner

I don't want anyone to think I'm not thankful for the blessings in my life. 

Of course I am.

I would prefer not to have been blessed with those Last Five Pounds.

 But there's one thing for which we should all be wishing:

and of course this is the time of year when we wrap up 

those very efficient holiday plans we began

at last January's wrapping paper sales.

Like planning the menu for 

CHRISTMAS DINNER!

Also high on the list in the Gratitude/Thankfulness Department, 

I had an email from delightful reader Caitlin, 

who, with me, is still puzzling over the intrinsic meaning 

of this entry from the Madewell site:

Quite possibly the Copywriter From Space has been trying to learn the English words for different kinds of fabric!
Thanks, Caitlin!
And by the way, don't forget to enter our little giveaway - cool stocking stuffers!

A very little giveaway, but a giveaway nonetheless. Up for grabs are a Liberty Of London cotton print handkerchief, still wrapped on its cellophane envelope, which I bought at the original Liberty store on Regent Street, London, and

from Provence, the kind of little pottery dish that turns up everywhere. Remember Eeyore's present? A useful box to keep things in? Well, if Eeyore were French, this would be his dish. You see them on tables holding a few olives and toothpicks, or some salted nuts, or some olive oil, you see them on ledges holding tea light candles, the point is that it's a useful little dish.

The dish doesn't have a handle, it's leaning on a pen so you can see it better.

This event is only open to public followers of this blog. Anonymous entries will not be accepted.
To enter:
(1) be a public follower
(2) sign in under your Blogger I.D. and leave a comment (please include your email address if your email is not on your Blogger profile or blog).
Earn extra entries by doing any one or more of the following!
(+1) follow on Twitter @wellfedfred
(+1) mention this giveaway on your blog (include a link to your blog in your comment if you do this).

After a lot of thought, and grimly filling out a few customs declarations, I realized it's too risky to send the dish abroad. So, if the first randomly chosen winner is not in the continental US, she or he will get the hankie, and the next randomly chosen US resident will get the dish. 
The giveaway will end on November 29, 2012. Good luck!

really truly thankful

food for thought...

thanksgiving feast

ok, this was really the most timely
word verification ever!

both sides of my personality in the trenches

here's a quote from David Lebovitz (The Sweet Life in Paris), pastry chef, author and blogger extraordinaire, on getting the meal to the table:

There are some really serious problems out there. Having a cake come out goofy, burning a tray of cookies, dropping a bowl of custard, not getting everything to the table at the same time, isn’t the end of the world. When I’m having a bad day, or whatever, I’ll stop to think about how lucky I am to have electricity, heat in my apartment, a roof over my head, a comfortable bed to climb into every night, friends and family to share good food with, and yes, even a sink to wash dishes in.

We hope there's a lot to be thankful for in your life, today and every day.

and yes, one of us is a bipolar New York depressive masochist Giant fan
who has suffered much - 
and fortunately one of us isn't.