Tag Archives: Thanksgiving

Non-fiction

State of the Turkey Address

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My parents took me out to dinner for Thanksgiving at a bistro filled to capacity. We sat outside on the back patio among several other customers and ate a three-course meal, which started with an appetizer, followed by an entree, and lastly the dessert. I had to choose which appetizer first and almost decided on mushroom soup but went with the lobster ravioli instead. The odd thing about their special Thanksgiving menu was the lobster ravioli was an appetizer while the squash ravioli was an option for the entree. Seemed redundant. I wondered if anyone actually went with that combo.

When it came to the entree, the description of the oven-roasted turkey outmatched that of the short ribs because it was served with sprouts, gravy, green beans, stuffing, cranberries, mashed potatoes, and whipped sweet potatoes. No other entree lived up to that mixture of food. Everything sounded lovely, but the turkey. As much as I couldn’t stand turkey, I thought it couldn’t be too bland. After all, we were at a bistro, not at home, where the turkey could’ve been overcooked. So I ordered that.

The lobster ravioli came first after I’d gorged on three sourdough dinner rolls with butter. Three ravioli pouches stuffed with lobster were sitting in a lobster bisque with corn on top and three oval cherry tomatoes. It was unexciting, not as lively as its description, so I was a little disappointed.

I was nosy and peeked over at the table next to us as we waited a long time for the entrees to come and noticed the large plate of turkey and such that a young fella was eating, and I was starving for it.

The waiter came back to us. “Are you folks ready for dessert?”

We all looked at each other, confused since our entrees had never come.

“We haven’t had our entrees,” my father said.

The waiter looked lost. “I’ll check on it now,” he said.

We were nervous after he walked away.

“I don’t think he ever put our orders in,” I said.

“You could be right,” my mother said.

But he had to have since he’d brought our appetizers. Like I said, it was very busy there. Waiters rushed by us with plates of food across their arms. New waiters whom I’d seemed not to see before hurried past our table as we kept waiting, a new waiter every minute.

Our entrees finally came after an hour of sitting out there in the cold. We’d all ordered the turkey dinner. Our plates looked identical and beautiful like a Thanksgiving dinner should. The turkey meat didn’t look as plain and boring as Thanksgivings past, picturesque, not white but brown meat like thick filets of steak dressed in dark brown gravy, over a hill of mashed potatoes with a small dollop of bright orange sweet potatoes, a little cup of cherry red cranberry sauce, a few emerald green sprouts, and a green bean here and there.

I dove right into the turkey first on top with my humungous fork and couldn’t believe how good the meat tasted. Turkey had never tasted so good, not bland at all. Maybe the thick gravy gave it such a rich flavor. I couldn’t stop eating it and had to eat all of it, about a pound before I could get to the mashed potatoes, which didn’t taste all that great. Many other restaurants I’d been to had served much better mashed potatoes. It wasn’t buttered or anything, not even whipped, but a little chunky in parts. The sweet potatoes equaled the turkey in flavor. I wished there was more of it. Most of the plate was of the turkey. I was spoiled last night and left most of the plate empty.

They took the plates away, and we waited for the dessert. I ordered the peach cobbler. The last time I’d eaten any peach cobbler was last Fourth of July. My mother had bought it from Trader Joe’s, and it was rich and sweet. I really recommend it. The cobbler last night, however, tasted as if it was for a diabetic, a fake sweetness with a burnt crust, not at all delectable like the one at Trader Joe’s, with very little vanilla ice cream. I was very disappointed after eating possibly the best turkey in my life.

But all in all, my dinner at the bistro was enjoyable, better than any attempt at home cooking simply because I ate something by a professional chef, so artistry was expected. I left with my stomach full, went back to my parents’ house, and went to bed. The weather was very cold, but it was clear outside without any harsh winds. I was able to have a good night’s sleep.

Non-fiction

Thanksgiving Dinner

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It’s that day when I sit around and do nothing except feast on carbs and watch football. The league has pitted teams I don’t care about. It seems like they do every year. This time around, it’s two teams with a losing record who suck. But because they’re teams in large markets, the league expects the largest audience to watch. Maybe they’re right, but it doesn’t make for watchable football. They should’ve known these teams would be bad before the season started.

Anyway, my parents understand I don’t like turkey because it’s bland. I’ve never liked turkey since I was a boy. The only time I might enjoy it is for leftovers when I can make a sandwich. My mother, who would keep pounds of turkey meat after Thanksgiving dinner, would have a dozen or so everything bagels to make turkey sandwiches. I used to eat them with lettuce, tomato, pickles, and mayonnaise, enough ingredients to mask the turkey. I would stick a sliver of meat into the sandwiches enough to make it non-vegetarian. But we won’t this year because we’re going out to eat at a restaurant that’ll serve a three-course meal, and it’ll offer several other options than turkey. Whatever I order will taste better.

I have different taste buds from my parents. When it comes to pizza, consider me a snob. I used to live in LA, where several pseudo-New York-style pizzerias coexisted. In case you don’t know already, New York style is thin crust, and they tend to burn the mozzarella enough to form brown spots all over it. My parents aren’t too familiar. They’ve lived in the suburbs for most of their adult lives. New York style is naturally more urban. I can tell when I drive through the suburbs where I live. Mostly corporate pizza chains are the options around here. Some such places try to mimic the style but don’t come close.

My parents wanted to order pizza a few months ago on Sunday when we watched football. There aren’t many places around here for quality pizza unless there’s a mom-and-pop that I don’t know about. I suggested my favorite corporate pizza chain.

My dad went to order from his iPad and struggled with the website. It took him close to a half hour to get to the order page. We had to help him out.

“Seventy dollars for two pizzas?” he said. “Are you kidding me?”

That was after all the delivery fees.

“No way,” he said. “We’re ordering from somewhere else.”

“Where?” I said.

“From our regular place. I’ll pick it up.”

Their regular place was a grocery store, not just any grocery store, but one that offered food at a cheaper price. I was skeptical but more peeved that they wanted to order from a place that wasn’t known for its pizza, let alone a grocery store. My pizza snobbery made me throw a fit, but I stayed polite and kept it internal. They ordered from there, and my dad went to pick it up.

He returned with a pizza without any pizza sauce but a garlic ranch sauce. The pizza wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t good either. I was on the fence about it and still wished we would’ve ordered from the corporate pizza chain. As corporate as it was, it still would’ve tasted better than the pizza from the grocery store. I don’t trust grocery stores when it comes to a deli or pizza in this case. But they continue to order from there and say it’s their favorite pizza. I just don’t understand.

But I gotta hand it to them. They reserved a table at a nice restaurant tonight. I’m sure it’ll be better than plain old turkey in which I would’ve smothered in gravy. It used to be all about everything but the turkey on Thanksgiving–the yams, the stuffing, the mashed potatoes, the pumpkin pie. I used to sit with my extended family, and we would play Trivial Pursuit later after we’d stuffed ourselves with tryptophan and pull our names out of a hat to see who would buy whom a Christmas present on a fifty-dollar budget. Those days are gone. My parents live hundreds of miles from the rest of that side of the family. Thanksgiving dinner isn’t the same with only three people, so we might as well go out to eat.

Non-fiction

Daylight Savings Schmavings

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I like to wake up before the sun rises and sit on the curb when the moon is still out. In the summer, the sun doesn’t rise until I leave the coffee shop in the morning. But now after the clock has turned back an hour, I get out of bed when the sun is already out. It’s too late to light candles in the bathroom when outside is already bright. The sun sets before I get off work and take a walk through downtown. I don’t mind that. Sure, the sun comes out early, but it leaves early too, while in the summer, the sun comes out late and doesn’t leave until eight o’clock at night. It’s safe to say the sun doesn’t appeal to me all that much, especially in the summer when it barks down at me. I appreciate the cold much more than the heat. At least in the cold, I can wear my heavy black North Face jacket to keep warm. My parents bought me that jacket one Christmas. I like it except for its hood. I would’ve rather preferred it without one. But anyway in the dead of summer, nothing can shield me from the furnace outside. I sweat everywhere, even without jogging, something I don’t miss.

Thanksgiving will be here in a few weeks, and jury duty will start around then. I don’t know if I’ll have to report as a juror. If I’m lucky, the judge will dismiss me. The only light shining is that I’ll be excused from work.

They dismissed me three years ago at the municipal court downtown. After driving there for four days and waiting all day in the courthouse, all I could do was sit in the hall and keep waiting until they called my group. When we sat in the courtroom, the judge asked us personal questions to see who was fit to be a juror and who wasn’t. For some reason, I didn’t pass the audition. Maybe because I said yes when they asked me if I ever knew someone who committed a crime. They let me go on a Thursday. I believe they’ll dismiss me this time as well.

My cousin invited me to Thanksgiving up north yesterday, but I told her that I might have to sit in court that week. She also invited me to Christmas. Our family gets together once a year to celebrate the holidays. It’s usually alright. The family tradition used to be a gift exchange. After Thanksgiving dinner, every family member would pull a name out of a hat and have to buy that person a Christmas gift on a fifty-dollar budget. Now I’m older, and I don’t care as much about gifts anymore. Just give me cash. Fifty dollars will suffice. I don’t prefer gift cards, which I usually get. The family knows I like Starbucks, so every other year, an aunt, a cousin, or an uncle would buy me a fifty-dollar gift card there. But it never excited me. Although I drink at Starbucks every day, it’s never thrilling to have a gift card. What’s the purpose of a gift card anyway? It’s just free cash to spend somewhere specific. I would rather feel free to spend the money anywhere. I guess Amazon is the only gift card I can see being useful. But even then, cash is still cash. If someone gives me fifty dollars, I’ll spend it wherever I like. But again, I don’t care. Don’t buy me anything.

Winter is coming. The animals are beginning to hibernate. A roadrunner crossed me on the sidewalk yesterday when I went for a walk. But the crows have flown somewhere supposedly warmer. But where would that be? Not that I’m counting, but I haven’t seen a crow for weeks. I’m never thrilled to see a crow, but a roadrunner is different. Birds that can’t fly fascinate me, like penguins. Picture a penguin with its fat belly or a roadrunner with its long tail flying through the air. What a funny sight, like a penguin wearing sunglasses. My friend once wrote a children’s book about a penguin that flew a plane. His friend, an artist, illustrated each page and published it so long ago that I forgot its title. He moved away back east, and I used to see him maybe once every ten years.

All my past friends have moved somewhere far from California, and I have nothing but memories. Last night, I thought about the time when my friend came to my apartment to go barhopping and noticed a supplement on top of my dishwasher called X-plode. He began exploding in laughter at me because of its name, X-plode, meaning I would shred so much that my muscles would erupt.

When we saw our other friend upstairs, on the third floor, my friend Ray said, “Brandon, Ben is taking steroids.”

Brandon looked at me disapprovingly. “Is that true, Ben?”

“It’s not steroids,” I said. “It’s a supplement.”

“Yeah, right,” Brandon said.

I was all into weight training in my late thirties, so I asked Ray, “Hey, Ray? Are you looking for peak performance?”

He started laughing again, and so did Brandon.

I asked, “Ray? Do you want to achieve mass or endurance? Are you ready to give 110%?”

The laughter continued.

I quit taking X-plode before the container was empty because my heart was ready to explode out of my chest. It tasted like pink lemonade if pink lemonade tasted any differently from yellow lemonade. I wouldn’t be able to discern the two if ever there was a taste test. All I knew was that X-plode really worked.