a little stuffing-day meditation from Simon
Last night Sera came over to hang out at our place with the crew (Jules; sister-in-law Jo; her wiener dog, Wiener; Jim Dinda; Mollie). We chatted. We ate Vietnamese take-out and sipped bubbly. We watched an episode of the super-scary TV show Sera writes and screamed at all the appropriate moments (and several inappropriate ones).
Dinda regaled us with a virtuosic reading from the Wikipedia item on "Turducken" (which stretched far beyond the literal confines of its compound-bird entrée entry to encompass multiple-fowl hyphenates worthy of Caligula — bustergophechiduckneaeal-
cockidgeoverwingailusharkolanbler, anyone?), leaving us breathless with laughter. We spent an extended period freestyling on this culinary sport: "What if you stuffed a chicken and a Great Blue heron in an albatross and then shoved the whole thing in an owl?" mused Sera. Later on, Wiener climbed in Jules' lap and they both caught a few winks.
It was a million miles from today's flurry of preparation and relatively dressed-up revelry, but it definitely felt like Thanksgiving.
Because when it comes right down to it, hanging out in my own place in my sweats with our little bunch ... let's just say: Zing! Went the strings of my heart. And not because of a gravy-saturated, artery-plugging bolus of turkey.
Don't get me wrong: I love the traditional bird-a-thon with the whole mishpuchah. But I'm also digging on the low-key living-room gathering big time. And feeling ever so grateful for my friends.
As I write this, Julia is laboriously buttering yams for my family's T-Giving chowfeast, while Dinda is prepping an apple pie for another event.
No doubt you are all girding yourselves for a stuffing-stuffing. Rest assured, wherever you are, that we're hugely grateful to have you as part of the VHJ community.
When we recover from the national pastime of gorging ourselves, we promise to get back to such core issues as the strike, everyday anxiety, the hotness of our tribe and stickin' it to Hitler.