(Inter)National Turkey and Alcohol Day

It was kind of strange not being the Thanksgiving initiator/chef this year, after I've spent the past two years bringing the holiday to a bunch of foreigners. And nothing is ever going to top the Thanksgiving of two years ago, when Margot and I left my flat at 7 a.m. and spent the morning roaming the streets of Lyon in search of a turkey, only to be told that it was pas le saison de dindes; one kindly butcher in the Croix Rousse told us that if anyone in the city were to have a turkey, it was a particular butcher a little further up the hill, past the church and around the corner. We found the shop, and the butcher pulled some strings for us, selling us a turkey he'd ordered for someone else, because they didn't need it until later in the weekend and he could get another one. He was also kind enough to cut the head off the turkey for us, but not, we later discovered, the neck. By that point, I was late, and so Margot and my headless, paper-wrapped turkey came to class with me. Then it was home to start cooking at around 1.

We had two electric burners and an oven the size of a toaster oven to cook with, and the turkey fit in this oven at a push, even after Emma's cousin, Jo, had sawed off the neck and tail with the sharpest knife we had (evidently not sharp enough to cut through bird and bone without sawing). Margot and I then banished everyone to Emma's bedroom, where they watched rented movies for the rest of the afternoon while we made: turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, green beans with toasted almonds, cranberry sauce, and pumpkin pie - all from scratch, because France doesn't believe in cans of cranberries and pumpkin, or boxes of stuffing and Potato Buds. Some of our attendees (let's be honest, it was mostly those of us who lived there) started drinking at around 4, and dinner wasn't ready until after 9, which led to everyone being really appreciative of the food, as well as several of us putting on the apron (and not much else) and having photos taken.

There were nine of us total: three Americans (me, Margot, and Libertine, who couldn't help cook but brought a raspberry tart from our favorite bakery), three French (Emma, Jo, and our neighbor), and three British (Sam, Nick, & Lui, who was still just a friend). Margot, Emma, and I made up everyone's plates for them to ensure fair sharing, and Emma claimed the turkey carcass so she could pick at all the dark meat - "the best parts".

I know it sounds stupid, but I really felt like I'd enlightened these people to the spirit of Thanksgiving: food and togetherness. They were my urban family, and it's become one of those nostalgia-saturated memories, the kind that makes me worry that I'll never feel so - proud? content? satisfied, in both the physical and emotional sense? - that I'll never feel so so again.

A pendant, for balance

Because when most of my friends were repeatedly watching Moulin Rouge, I was repeatedly watching Mulan.

I know that in our cyber-society, there are a lot of excuses for not blogging or returning emails with any regularity. I would like to state, for the record, that I email religiously. But I do occasionally need blog Metamucil. My current story is that Lui is here, and often comes to work with me, and has a tendency to read over my shoulder while I type.

I've been meaning to post for a while though, because I realize that all of my posts are pretty negative. And while a large part of my psyche is governed by pre-wedding jitters (which was how a friend categorized a recent dream of mine in which I was making out with Squeak even though neither of us was even remotely enjoying the experience; we won't even get into the dream I had the other night, wherein I was skydiving) and the quarter-life crisis (so nicely put by my college roommate, Monica, who, despite still being single and living what I've come to think of as the good life, feels the same way), it's not all bad, as they say.

So I just want to say, again for the record, that since he's been here, Lui has walked to the store to buy me flowers; has come into work with me nearly every day to help out (because an NPO can never have too many volunteers); while at my work, spelled "I <3 U" in paperclips on the glasstop Xerox machine and copied it for me; and has several times insisted on paying for things like ice cream or coffee for us, irregardless of the fact that he has absolutely no source of income for the foreseeable future. Oh, and that the week before he got here, he googled the choir, got the address, googled florists in the same zip code, and had a beautiful arrangment sent to me at work, with the note reading "How's this for international romance?"

So there's that. Ignore my usual whining, because really, I do love him, and wedding plans (though endlessly complicated) are full speed ahead.