The birds were ravished. Two tiny seven-pounders did not last long in this crowd of voracious turkey hunters, but luckily we had eleventy-hundred side dishes to induce a tryptophan coma. There were Polish pies and sage stuffing, Mexican mashed-potatoes, Arkansawer cranberry dressing and biscuits, olives and asparagus, Brussel sprouts Floridian, mashed yams with 'mallows, Greek salad made by a Greek man, and Canadians-who-stole-Thanksgiving gravy. It was an epic feast shared by friends from a small world.
The day started at 2pm. Which is mere blasphemy considering years past. I was a cool, calm and collected cook who damn well knew what she was doing with a turkey and could make pumpkin pie in her sleep. I prepared pie crusts ahead of time and had six loaves of bread ready to be converted into stuffing. But mostly, over these past years of hosting, I have learned the value of putting my trust in others. To bring what they will. To bring their own taste. Even if that means the potatoes arrive half and hour late. As do all things Mexican.
When the bellies were full and no one could move, we sat and we talked. The same people who see each other six times a day, at work, at the store, at the movies, at lunch. In our small funny town we're actually quite quaint no matter if we come from all sides of the planet. When the Norwegian professor gets up to sing us a song, and the Chinese man smiles along with the Swiss, the Greek gives a smirk, and the Latina does something silly, we all are just one big family feasting together.