Thanksgiving came and went, like a slow train out of town. Shopping and cooking and hanging out. Marking and fretting. A big fat novel, Middlesex. Some languid afternoons – the last, I think – on my back deck. Unseasonable, unreasonable, heat: I like it, I hate it: it’s not funny anymore.
And friends tumbling into my home, the smell of roasting turkey enfolding them. A couple – South Asian and German – who’d never done Thanksgiving before. Their delight was palpable, anthropological.
A table and some chairs in my back sunporch, sort of like being out doors but not quite. The soft, early dark. Candles, gilding faces. Conversation and food and wine: talk about community, and work, and making art. The changes in our lives. The passing of time. the marking of it, with ritual, slightly self-conscious, largely joyous.
And the conclusion: the best apple pie I’d ever made. Pie crust is never ever the same. This one was thin, almost crunchy. And the apples had a full, but not-too-sweet taste, something like wine, and cinnamon, and honey.
Piles of dishes the next day. The abjection of leftovers. Wondering if I should try to obtain my mother’s recipe for Turkey a la King.
Any clever or nostalgic turkey leftover recipes anyone?