I had planned to dive into the Thanksgiving edition of Everyday with Rachael Ray, but I can’t find it. I checked everywhere in and around my desk and nope, it ain’t anywhere. I did find two issues of Modified Monthly, though (that’s the magazine on which I practice my madd copyediting skillz), an old Popular Photography that i had saved for an HDR article, and the latest issue of Imbibe.
<soapbox> Imbibe is a great magazine. If you like cocktails like I like cocktails, I highly recommend subscribing. In fact, I highly recommend subscribing to pretty much any magazine you enjoy, even Modified Monthly. It’s cheaper -- usually half-off the cover price. And it’s convenient; they just come to you like magic! Like clockwork. Like clockwork magic! Subscribing also gives the business side of the ‘zine some numbers to work with when deciding things like size, paper quality, how many ads they need to run, and how many writers and photographers to hire. Because I like reading magazines that are printed well and have a high content-to-ad ratio, with pretty pictures and writing that is relevant, entertaining, and informative, I subscribe.</soapbox>
Anyway. No Rachael Ray. Which is probably for the best, because I’m really not a fan of Turkey Day, anyway.
The first time I made a Thanksgiving feast was, well… I was 18, had just moved into my first apartment, and didn’t really have niceties like cookware or a wall calendar. So when that third Thursday in November rolled around, I didn’t think anything of it until about 2 p.m. when I realized, “Oh shit! I haven’t gone grocery shopping! Also, I’m broke!” My roommate and I pooled our cash, scrambled up the street to the 7-11 and grabbed everything we could afford that we thought would make an acceptable Thanksgivingy meal. With our combined eleven dollars, we got Minute Rice, carrots, some raisins, and Nutter Butters. And a couple Big Gulps, because it ain't a real dinner without Dr. Pepper. From that, we made something that fed all of our friends. Nobody seemed to mind the lack of canned cranberries or stuffing, and we all got pretty drunk on some purloined Grain Belt. It was a nice evening indeed.
One thing bothered me, though; everyone called it an Orphan’s Feast. And the subsequent Thanksgivings I’ve had sans family -- which is all of them -- have been referred to, at least once in the course of the meal, as an "orphan’s dinner." I hate that phrase. It implies that it’s a less-than event, something cobbled together for the poor unfortunates and unwashed heathens that have nowhere else to go. The reasoning seems to be that if not for the grace of the host, we’d all be standing on street corners, kicking rocks at passing cars.
I don’t think this is the case at all. It’s a gathering of people who want to be together rather than have to be together. It’s a gathering of friends who enjoy each other’s company with no strings, guilt trips, or trumped-up family drama. You can drink too much wine and talk politics and literature and not have to make up excuses to go out behind the garage to have a cigarette or huff some ReddiWhip. You can get up and go whenever you want. You can bring your best fuckbuddy and not have to refer to him or her as “an old college pal.” You can show up in a tux. You can show up in pajamas. You can bake your own turkey and stuff the damn thing with whatever the hell you want!
But even with the looseness of a chosen family, there is the Expectation of Damocles that continues to hang over everything – the comparison to the Family Dinner. Whether as antagonist or protagonist, The Dinner makes for a bad guest at any table. Not the food itself; that part is awesome. I mean the expectations, and the comparisons, to every traditional family dinner ever. There must be turkey; if there isn’t, there is "something missing." This annoys me to no end -- not just as a vegetarian, but as a free thinker. There needs to be stuffing and pie and sweet potatoes with marshmallows and it’s just not a real dinner without them.
You know what makes a real dinner? Nothing. There’s no magical checklist. There are no proper ingredients. You either have it -- in whatever incarnation you choose -- or you don’t.
So what am I doing this year? Absolutely nothing. El Boyfriendo will be off in a sunnier climate (EDITOR'S NOTE: Not unless the magazine pays me, I won't), and I have chosen not to avail myself upon the kindness of friends. I will be sleeping late, wandering around a bit in my pajamas, watching all the Criminal Minds reruns I can find (which is all of them), and maybe, just maybe, ordering a pizza. Not because it’s the only thing I can think of to do, but because it’s what I want to do. If I’m lucky, I won’t have to put on a bra or brush my teeth for three days. It’s going to be a wonderful, quiet, boring long weekend ... and for that, I am very thankful.
I can dig it.
Posted by: theodicy | 11/11/2011 at 10:16 PM