why i love thanksgiving

a fifth-grade style writing exercise

Carol Bly, my writing teacher, harbors a thinly veiled disdain for Thanksgiving. She keeps giving us writing exercises (see below) in which we must write about a holiday drama. She's given a few examples, like the time Robert told off his aunt at post-dinner pumpkin pie, and talks about what a hotbed of psychological turmoil surrounds the dinner table.

A classmate asked her what the deal was. Carol admitted that she isn't thrilled with Thanksgiving, and a number of classmates said they hate the holiday, too. Hate it. It's purposeless and a lot of work to get a bunch of people together who have to pretend they're not going crazy to get it all over with.

Pish.

I love Thanksgiving.

It's non-secular, (although I like most secular holidays, I like that it isn't about organized religion) all about food and gratitude. Gratitude is underrated.

It celebrates a friendly union between two enemies through food. Food is powerful stuff. I have a problem with romanticizing the relationship between invaders and natives, yes, but it's not so much about that anymore. It's grown into being about family and stopping to appreciate the good things. It's about cooking and eating, which are historically fantastic methods of human bonding. In my family, it's about seeing the new babies that have been born or adopted in the past year, like my baby cousin Lucy from China.

You dress in warm clothes because the business and heat of summer are officially over. This is key: Thanksgiving rocks because it marks the point where things calm down and we all turn inward and get a little solitude after an extroverted summer. I'm a writer, so I dig that.

You cook good stuff. The house smells good. You get together people you love. (Frankly, I avoid people that don't make me feel good. It's a holiday for chrissake, and life's too short.) You eat a ton. You take a nap. You drink good wine and eat pie. I hardly ever eat pie. My sisters and I make lists of all the things we're thankful for and read our lists from the previous year, which usually makes us laugh till we just about pee our pants. Then you sleep and eat more. When else can you watch at 35 foot tall Wonderdog falloon float down Madison Avenue? Never.

I am single. I know my friend Voix is/was a little bit bummed not to have a snuggly signif for the holidays, and I can relate. But I'm telling you--there are benefits.

Single people usually get adopted into another person's family holidays if they're too far from their own, and my single friends kind of band together. Single folks often get to spend holidays with different loved ones and possibly an eclectic group of cool people that they might otherwise see.

The Voix is in Arizona with some dear friends right now having a fab time. Today, my friend Matt is flying in from Portland. Matt grew up three blocks away from me and we've been friends forever. I haven't seen him in age and our Thanksgiving is going to be fantastic. If I had a signif, would Matt be coming to spend a ton of Q.T. with me? Maybe, but I doubt it. I'd be more likely to spend the holiday at Mr. Signif's parents house (or dragging him to mine) where one of us spends the day making small talk with strangers. There's nothing wrong with that--but there's plenty of time for it down the road. That's all I'm saying.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go tidy up for my guest, get my fireplace going, light my candle that smells like pumpkin spice and decanter a pinot noir. All the best....

pickled

I was far too pregnant to cook a 20 pound turkey. I gave the job to my younger brother Jason, fresh off the plane from Africa. Two years in the Peace Corps, Jason’s the only one who didn’t give a told-you-so when I bailed. So I’m stubborn and thought I could peel a hundred potatoes at 8½ months pregnant. Forget it.

Everyone was coming to my house as planned, and my only job was to lie on the couch with my legs propped up and to do what I pleased. This, for me, was to eat pickled eggs. Old pickled pregnant lady, I was perfectly happy with a big jar of purple eggs swimming in purple juice eating them one by one. Eat them slower, get more of them down.

Jason and his girlfriend Martha clinked and clanked around in the kitchen while I watched a giant 35 foot tall Barbie falloon float down Madison Avenue in the TV room, my legs propped on several pillows. Jason appeared in the doorway with a soup pot.

“They just said there are 3.4 million flecks of glitter on Barbie’s purse,” I said. “Get a load of that.” I fished in my big glass jar for another.

“Can you mash these?” he put the pot on the coffee table. I scooted myself upright on the couch.

“Three point four million,” I said. “That’ a truckload of glitter, my friend.” I put the pot next to me on the couch. “What? Beans?”

“Lentils,” he said. I looked at him, And? “I need you to mash them for me.” My husband, Rick, was walked through the room to get the vacuum cleaner off the back porch.

“Instead of a traditional Thanksgiving with all of us sitting around romanticizing the genocide of Native Americans by European invaders,” Jason said, “this year we’re going to eat a traditional African meal I learned to cook in Kebri Dehar.” Rick stopped in his tracks.

“Soooo no turkey, potatoes, pie, gravy—” Rick said.

“Nope,” Jason said.

“Creamed corn?”

“No.”

“Sweet potato marshmallow goo?”

“Nooo!” Martha sang from the kitchen?

“You can still watch football,” Jason said.

“Alrighty.” I said, “Where’s the pestle?” And I mashed.

By the time Dad, and Grandma arrived, Jason was spooning the top three inches off each pot of lentils so Martha could take the pots into the back yard, still smoking, to scrape the black layer of burned crust off the bottom. Our father sat in the living room telling his half-deaf mother that women are incapable of getting a perfect math score on the GMAT because they’re too emotional.

I raced my granny, 95 now, to the table, which Rick had decked out with paper cutouts of turkeys and cornucopias because he a very cute husband. Dad moved on to his next favorite task to insulting womankind (both of which he’s mastered): drinking wine. Jason served each of us a plate of spongy bread.

Grandma said to me, “Laney, I think Jason forgot to set the table.”

“Gram,” Jason said, "the Injera is your silver wear.” He spooned bean paste on her flat bread. You use your fingers to scoop up the food instead of a fork.”

“What the hell, Jason?” Grandma said. Bubbles broke through the soupy beans like gas through molten lava on Mars. Everyone looked at my brother. Yeah, Jason.

“Well, this is Misir Alicha on Injera, and this,” he stirred a pot of stew that looked like stringy cabbage in opaque bullion, “is Quanta FirFir. Dried beef stew in BerBere sauce.”

“Where’s the real food?” Gram said.

“Grandma—this is a traditional Ethiopian dish. I learned to cook it in the Peace Corps. I was given the honor of cooking this year’s family Thanksgiving’s meal and I’ve chosen to celebrate, I mean, I've chosen for us to celebrate, together, cultural diversity rather than the violent oppression of English Colonization.”

Dad poured himself some more white zin to break the awkward silence.

“You eat all this food with your hands,” I said. “See?” and I scooped up a spoonful of the bean mush and sponge bread with my purple-stained fingers and shoved it in my mouth. “Oh, dear God, Jason. I love you, man, but you can’t cook. Little Bunny Fu-Fu or anything.” Impossible to tease my brother without getting a smile out of him.

“It’s FurFur, Lane.”

There was a loud crash from the kitchen. After several moments of pause for a mental Holy Shit, Rick ran into the kitchen. I hobbled behind him. The floor was covered with purple juice.

“Oh my God, my pickled eggs!” I said.

“Oh my God, she made a pizza!” Rick stood behind me. Martha held a pepperoni pizza with a fish-shaped oven mitt.

“I’m so sorry,” Martha said. “I hit the jar with my elbow.” Rick lunged for the pizza like it was a mirage in a desert. Martha handed him the pizza slicer before he shoved the thing in his mouth whole.

“Jason, there are some rags in the laundry room,” Rick said. “You clean up the juice. Honey,” he said to me. I was trying my damndest to pick an egg up off the floor. My God! The eggs! Purple eggs rolled everywhere, under the kitchen table, under the cabinets, down the stairs to the back porch. “Go back to the dining room, Okay? and keep your grandmother busy for a few minutes.” Every time I bent to and reach for it I nudged it with my foot and the egg slid away.

“Slippery bastards.”

“Baby?”

“Okay, okay,” I said. I walked back to the dining room. My socks, dyed purple and soaked with juice, slopped on the linoleum.

Neruda

i sleep with pablo on
the empty
pillow not asleep

my lover
when there is none
i lie
on my side

your hip, he says,
curves up
from the blue sheets
like an island
from the sea.