The Thanksgiving Report

I like a good eating event. A gathering focused on food. Potluck, I think it's called? A table full of steaming dishes magnetically draws a party close, gives it purpose, fills the stomachs of imbibers so that they don’t get wrecked when/if they take it a few sips too far. This is the magic of Thanksgiving.

I hosted at my house on Thursday, but I did not belabor the feast. I just made a simple herb salad and cooked a frozen rhubarb pie. Mark roasted a ball of reconstituted soy product, also known as a Tofurky (the best turkeys being the alive ones, of course). Toby created a platter of scalloped potatoes that billowed clouds of steam, Danielle crafted supernaturally good cornbread, and Jesse, bless his soul, showed up carrying a pink-cheeked baby and a giant fake turkey made of vital wheat gluten. (We cuddled the former and ate the latter.) Also, there was green bean casserole, candied yams, mashed potatoes, pumpkin pie—every whateverthefuck you'd expect from a classic holiday spread—and I barely lifted a finger.

Many ovens make light work, you see.

We skated before we ate, despite the kind of cold that had the trees tinkling with ice.

My pets are thankful that I continue to feed and house them even after enduring years of their joblessness and failure to contribute to the household in any other way .