Every Thanksgiving since I’ve lived in this fine town of Austin, there’s been a “fun” run. Actually, people around here find any reason to run–rain, shine, or sleet! So, I left for yoga a few minutes earlier than usual for the inevitable traffic delay. Other than a clueless runner disregarding the crosswalk sign at an intersection not closed off for runners, I had absolutely no delay getting to yoga a whopping 35 minutes ahead of time. I pulled the door and nearly hurt my fingertips. I double-checked the posted holiday schedule. Sure enough, for the first time ever, I arrived so early they hadn’t unlocked the door yet!The class was refreshingly full. So many out-of-towners made our bikram class part of their vacation experience. One of the best things after practice was the surprising number of text messages, wishing me a happy Thanksgiving.
I waited until I baked my “famous” cornbread, fortified with sharp cheddar cheese, hot green chilies and sweet corn. I sent along a picture of the cornbread with my return Thanksgiving texts.
Although Thanksgiving dinner was mere minutes away, finding the actual apartment within the complex damn near took longer than the trip there. A delicious spread of appetizers awaited, but I wanted to save my appetite for the main meal.
As soon as I placed the cornbread on the table, I whipped out my Austin Writers Roulette 2015 business card-sized flyers. I don’t even resist the temptation to recruit new people to the show. Our hostess had invited a variety of adult orphans to this dinner.
At one point, she asked for a volunteer to carve the meats. When no one stepped forward due to lack of experience, I announced having experience dissecting fetal pigs. All agreed I was the most qualified. Fortunately, I didn’t have to battle with an intimidating whole turkey nor ham bone. Just a series of straight cuts. For the first time ever, I longed for my own set of knives! Seemed a little awkward to do that much knife work without my own knives.
The easy part was cutting up the cornbread. I politely stepped aside to let the other guests serve themselves first. Once again, the racial stereotype was true: without the bold Black person to get the food line started, nonBlack people will out polite one another by not serving themselves. I shared that observation with them in between laughing and sipping wine on the couch. Finally someone bravely started the food line besides me. Predictably, the lively pre-dinner conversation slowed down. The hostess had been reluctant initially to start dinner since all the guests had not arrived. I said that if the guest in question was a Black or Latino, then he/she would not mind us starting without him/her. An Indian guest threw in his opinion that if the missing guest were an Indian, he/she wouldn’t mind us starting either. With three major cultural passes like that, we all began.
I didn’t have any traditional board games although I was tempted to bring my Go board. I decided in the end, that it was better to bring something we could all enjoy. I merely enticed two other people to join me making geometric shapes out of zometools.
As we all sporadically filed out, everyone prepared a to-go plate. The hostess even encouraged us to take home a bottle of wine. I lovingly shoved my parting gift of red wine into my runnur, impressing everyone with my utility “purse.” With food balanced in one hand and the case of zometools in the other, I couldn’t possibly carry a third thing in my hand.
I managed not to overeat, but wasn’t good for anything else and drove straight home to finish writing out nontraditional Christmas cards to beat the rush.