A Thanksgiving to forget.

When you are single person, with the closest family 3500 miles away and they are not even American, then you certainly depend on the kindness of friends to adopt you for Thanksgiving. I usually had a good choice of venues and would spread myself around as to what worked best for everyone.

About 30 years ago, I hit a drought. All the people who usually hosted were now going to visit others and not staying put, so when a woman whom I did not know too well, but who lived a few houses away, asked if I would like to join her and some friends, I gladly said yes. She was a psychologist who actually talked to her patients by phone from home. Her friends were coming from Washington DC, so I thought that sounded promising.

Thus, at the appointed time, I was on her doorstep, clutching the obligatory bottle of wine. It was a cold Thanksgiving and I needed a coat, even for the very short walk, so I hung it up and was ushered in. I found eight people, four male and four female, sitting on hard chairs almost in a circle, with a small table in the middle. It kind of looked like a seance. I am introduced and instantly forgot all their names, which were all very pedestrian normal, like Robert and Mike and Gloria and Betty. The men favored loud flannel shirts and the women looked like they had not been clothes shopping in some time. There was a sort of Mormon crossed with Amish look about them. They were drinking sodas or juice. The table had a bowl of potato chips and another of peanuts. That was IT and the the bowls were hardly overflowing.

What was also missing was the wonderful smell of a fine meal coming. I began to feel uneasy and asked if there was a corkscrew, as I was definitely was not going to survive on OJ. Armed with a glass of red, I entered the conversation. Well, that is a bit of an overstatement, as there wasn’t any. They were all just sitting there, staring blankly in to space. I tried a few opening lines like “I hear you come from DC”? Yes, said one of them. Case closed. “Have you been to Brooklyn before”? Yes, said another and it died on the vine.

I am wondering if I have hit an AA meeting and there I am now refilling my glass. My hostess was no more use and I could see her in the kitchen area, so I got up. “Joanne… can I help you with anything”? No, she says. I realize there is no wonderful Thanksgiving smell because there is absolutely nothing being cooked. The stove is off. No sign of anything being prepared either. Perhaps it is all cold and in the fridge ? Then the clincher line came: “I’m going to send out for pizza”. In my book, Thanksgiving and pizza never appear in the same sentence. This was when I knew I had to get out of there pronto. But what to do?

I hatched a fast plot. In about 10 mins time, in the almost silence, I am going to start massaging my temples hard and would lean forward with my elbows on my knees. I might start to do some deep breaths, loud enough to be heard. Perhaps someone will wonder … Is he alright? Nobody did, so I lied through my teeth and said I had all the signs of a massive migraine coming on (which I genuinely had used to suffer from once in a while and they were the real ‘I want to die’ ones.) So I announced that I was so sad, but I would need to leave immediately, as I needed to be in bed in a dark room to suffer it out. No one showed too much concern and they kind of rearranged their legs while digesting the bad news and continued to stare out blankly.

I near ran down the street for the safety of home. And had a large and very strong drink. It was now 6pm on Thanksgiving and there was nothing going on. It was a bust.

Next morning I went to the supermarket and found the 50% off smallest turkey they had. I bought some sweet potatoes, which would go with the other stuff I had in the fridge. I found a pecan pie and some vanilla ice cream. That afternoon, I had my own, day after Thanksgiving feast and boy, IT TASTED FABULOUS.