My Thanksgiving.
If your life is so empty and barren that you must post on Thanksgiving Day to remind the universe that you are still alive, I figure it’s de rigueur that you post about food, right?
Understand, “empty and barren” is a literary construct here, not complaining or self-pitying. Were I in need of company, I have a standing invitation to join my daughter and son-in-law at his family’s Thanksgiving gathering in fancy digs over looking Rittenhouse Square, but my social skills have so atrophied at this point that being in an enclosed area (even though the living room there is larger than my entire apartment) with people I hardly know but should be on my best behavior with despite the fact that I disagree with most of them on many fundamental issues of all sorts is less pleasure than frustration. And old friends who always invited me to their Thanksgiving gathering (where many of the conditions noted above also apply as regards my attitude and the setting) have given up on either me or the big dinner they threw.
Simply put, when the world is partying, it’s best for all concerned that I lock the doors, stay below window level and work it out on my own.
I generally stumble into Thanksgiving with little or no preparation, but this year I was ahead of the game. I got a nice pair of fresh turkey breasts from Kolb Bros. Meats, my local butcher; a bottle of Beaujolais Nouveau at the State Store, not one of my favorite wines by a far margin but it do bring back memories of Thanksgivings past; a carrot cake at The Farmer’s Daughter, the area’s finest farm market, and I stocked in all the makings for veggies (Broccoli heads), garlic mashed potatoes and stuffing, along with a pre-meal course of a nice wedge of Brie (disappointing for the price, actually), some pleasantly garlicky hummus, pita bread and my favorite crackers.
Oh yeah, I had me some fine beer in mind as well, as we shall see.
Before getting started, I had to have a long talk with Buddy, who had been giving me pained looks all afternoon. This has been a very good week for our financial fortunes, as each day brought at least one deeply appreciated check which could be converted to the coin of the realm to the mailbox. As a result, we had made a trip to the bank to make a deposit each of the last three days and the lady at the drive-up window had rewarded His High Maintenance with not one, but two biscuits, on each visit. He has, as is his wont, now convinced himself this behavior will be The Way Things Are Every Single Day and was most distraught that I seemed to have forgotten to make the bank trip today. We did, in the morning, make a delivery of comical books to the longest-standing Jacey Services customer and receive a nice wad of cash in return. We will therefore be able to fulfill his impossible dream one more once on the morrow. On the safe assumption that my life has not gotten incredibly better than it has ever been, however, I needed to explain to him that Biscuit Lady will be a sometimes, not daily, high spot in his life.
It was a bit like trying to explain to The Inevitable Ruch (© Jack Curtin’s Liquid Diet this very moment because I just thought of it) that spamming folks daily is a bad thing or to America’s Most Beloved Beer Writer (© Jack Curtin’s Liquid Diet 2009) that soft-spoken and laid-back is a really appealing approach to inter-personal relationships.
But I try, I try.
I have wandered off point (I figure we may be a generation away from the time when any of us can say “I digress” and get away with it) and will now get back to wherever it is that I was.
Thanksgiving means eating earlier than usual, that’s another one of the verities. After contemplated a battle plan over a Great Lakes Eliot Ness Amber Lager around 4 this afternoon, I started the oven a-heating, chopped and diced and otherwise badly but necessarily mistreated once living things. I then settled in on the couch with the cheese, hummus et al and my first glass of the Beaujolais. I am told that this year’s vintage is one of the best in years and probably agree; it was quite pleasant. I put the seasoned turkey breasts into the oven (thank the Gods of Edible, I did check them periodically rather than depending on the cooking time I had extrapolated—wrongly—from another recipe and was able to pull them out just in time, still juicy and delicious), jumped up to cook every other item in its time and with reasonable effectiveness.
A fine meal was had by all me. If any of you reading this had a finer meal, I have to believe that was a sinful act.
Dinner is done and the kitchen piled high with all the pots, dishes and other resultant things that must be attended to. I have a strict rule of never going to bed without dealing with that sort of situation , so it will rectified in due time. For now, there are more important and appealing things to do.
The carrot cake is calling my name from the far counter, over by the frig. I ordered it un-iced, as is my practice, but the message never got through. I could scrape the icing off, but one of the bright and lovely young women who man the counter at TFD told me to “reward myself” and eat it as it is. I pretty much did whatever teenage females wanted me to do in my callow youth and am hardly going to become a hard-ass on the issue now. So, even if the intent of her advice was to speed up my demise (often the case with those earlier young women), I have embraced it (at least for tonight’s portion).
Once I am ready, I will open a bottle of Deschutes The Abyss 2009 Reserve Imperial Stout, a beer about which I have heard so many good things that I was unable to resist asking the invaluable (I will pay a price for using that adjective) Carl P to acquire some for me. That boy is nothing if not efficient.
A big imperial stout and a sweet carrot cake? The latter might not be able to stand up to the former, you say? Perhaps, perhaps not.
One must embrace the moment, or one could turn into one of those people with whom one does not desire to share enclosed space.
One must understand that passing wisdom can come from unexpected sources.
Just as the Sainted Ronald Reagan gave us the invaluable“Trust, but verify” while he presided over an administration run by insanely wealthy back-room handlers whose self-serving policies put into motion the forces which will sooner rather than later reduce America to an afterthought, so did Bush Two, yet another (dare I say, Republican) administration in which the incredibly inept power brokers of our time (albeit ones with a Big Dick up front giving the orders) further paved the path to disaster, offered an applicable verity for this situation:“you go to war with the army you have, not the one you wish you had.”
Abyss and carrot cake. I’ll let you know how that works out.
Positively Brooksian, this post, Jack. Nice.
BTW, until your sorely misguided FDA allows in raw milk Brie de Meaux, I’m afraid all of your Bries are destined to be disappointing. Like a perfectly hopped pale ale brewed from grist that’s 35% corn…
Brooksian, eh? Another landmark achieved. Now I can aspire to Brysonian or, dare I say it, Beaumontish. A man needs must dream as well as drink….and drink as well as he dreams.
This is still one of my most favorite posts of all time by you.