Thanksgiving came and went, and I’m probably the only person who has a food blog that wasn’t prepping all November long for the feast.  All of the little food writers out in blogosphere covering their new finds, days of trolling for ingredients and how to’s on setting a pretty table.

Instead, I was hunkered down in my mom’s flannel pajama bottoms and my brother’s blue fleece robe, making a dent in my parents couch and enjoying free cable.  

I like my posts to be about spur of the moment meals and traumatic moments I rectified with food and remade here.  Thanksgiving certainly ties in - but I didn’t do any of the cooking (see notes above on my day wear and need to watch Lifetime movies).  I spent the last 10 days being 13 years old instead of 31.  If only I had this rack and great haircut at 13, I would have been much less tortured.

My sole purpose in preparing and engaging in this years Thanksgiving meal was to taste test and do dishes.  I happily took my assignments and ran with them.  I didn’t plan on arguing, I cook for myself every day. 

This Thanksgiving was the first I’d spent with my family in 6 years.  Six years ago my mom, dad and brother Tom packed it up, left Brooklyn, and headed to the land of sunshine, Jesus, golf and beaches.  My family doesn’t go to the beach, my father does not golf, Thomas has some Sunday dalliances at church - but not one of the three are religious ragers.  Dad used to be an usher at our church, but that came and went after Tom, Lou and I were confirmed.  I think his sole purpose in ushering was to play the role of spy.

They left in search of a new home, in a better neighborhood, with a cheaper cost of living.  Cheaper than living in Brooklyn could ever offer.

Then, two years later, my brother Louis met them down there - after he broke up with his trollish girlfriend.  We all knew that wasn’t going to last.

The cheese stood alone.
That’s me.   

For the past 6 years I stayed behind, although, admittedly, Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday.  Ask anyone, and they’ll probably tell you Thanksgiving is their favorite holiday. No gifts, no fuss, just food and dysfunction.  Eat, call someone an asshole, eat, hug it out.  Simple.  Why get presents involved?  It only complicates matters.   

One year - when in NY - I spent Thanksgiving with my friend Su, and her family, and then went out on a third date with someone I have not seen since.  Su’s family is Argentine, they hate turkey - we had Thanksgiving chickens and it was awesome. Coincidently, the guy I had the date with was also Argentine and he also ate chicken, but from Boston Market, for Thanksgiving dinner. Our meal of chicken on Thanksgiving and mutual like to make out was what bonded us.  Then he told me he still had a thing for his ex-girlfriend, which is better than another guy I went on a date with who told me he had a coke problem and used to hit his ex-girlfriend.

I’ve spent the last 5 Thanksgiving’s with my aunt, uncle and cousin.  My aunt puts on a similar spread to my mom.  They adopted me and I’m thankful they have.  After so many years of being with them,  I missed seeing their faces - and the day didn’t feel the same without them.   

But, this year, I had turkey with my small family.  There was no chicken, no awkward date to follow a full belly of food.  We ate everything we did when I was a kid.  Two types of stuffing, traditional bread stuffing and one with rice - ginzo style - as I fondly named it as a child.  My grandma made this rice stuffing with chestnuts, Italian sausage, mushrooms and Italian bread.  All of the men in the family went crazy for it, and I still don’t know why.  Not my favorite - grandma - but it was made anyway. Nothing was fancy or had a twist.  We used every day plates and my mom’s white corning ware and pyrex dishes.  Everything was just as I remembered it.  Going back was comforting and strange - all at once.   

The fried corn finished with a salty, peppery, garlicky and buttery after taste. Homemade cranberry sauce, perfectly tarte and sweet.  Escarole with walnuts and olives, so crunchy and salty and oily.  Sweet potato casserole - topped with buttery brown sugared pecans (the burnt ones are my favorite). Roasted carrots and roasted broccoli.

Ok, we never ate roasted broccoli.  My brother Lou and my Uncle Louie used to request this terrible broccoli and cheese casserole which was, essentially, boiled broccoli, drenched in Velveeta cheese and topped with breadcrumbs.  I put a stop to the broccoli casserole this year.  Anything that yellow in color and oozing cannot be good for you.  As a kid, I always passed on the broccoli and cheese casserole, and I love broccoli.  I hated that I didn’t want to eat the broccoli.  Even at 13, I knew good greens should not be tainted.  I know Thanksgiving is heavy and food filled and fattening and that’s fine - but fake cheese never should have been allowed.  

I tired to suggest making side dishes of creamed spinach and sweet potato graten with gruyere  - all recipes my friend Christine had recommended and re-created from Food & Wine and Bon Appetit magazines.  My mom let me know that my brothers and dad are not into new Thanksgiving creations, nor do they like the old ones being omitted.  I may have lost the battle of mixing up our standard sides, but I won the war on broccoli and cheese - and that was enough for me.  

So, for all of the food lovers  who ate this years Thanksgiving dinner as they remembered it …

Nothing fancy.
Awkward conversations.
Random silence.  
Moments of yelling.
Mouthfuls of food.
Plates stacked high. 
Football humming in the background.

This is for you.