The giving of the Thanks

It is time for a post about Thanksgiving, no?

So, my family (sister, bil, niece) used to celebrate this day in San Francisco with friends who were Thanksgiving bullies. In a good way. Our host liked to take control of the entire menu, and the only thing she ever wanted you to bring, was yourself, and perhaps a nice bottle of something tasty. She would sometimes ask for dessert contributions, but it was never too stressful if she did, knowing full well that she would be making at least 5 different pies herself. If yours sucked, it would go more or less unnoticed by the guests polishing off the good stuff. I would usually go to her house a few hours early to help—there was something calming about being barked instructions about a better way to cut the russets for mashed potatoes, a more efficient way to trim the string beans or a good walnut to gorgonzola to lettuce ratio for the salad.

After at least 10 turkeys together, our tried-and-trues moved away to the more realistic real-estate pastures of Raleigh, North Carolina. We feared that Thanksgiving as we knew it would never be the same. As it turned out, my sister threw together a perfectly acceptable feast at the eleventh hour. We were saved! We would not be the family at Denny's on bird-day.

This year we are going to the home of some of our LA friends, where the two of us will be far outnumbered by black gay men. Lamar (one of our hosts) called me a few days ago to discuss the menu. We decided that my contribution would be the green beans, and the cranberry sauce. He muttered something about yams, and I offered to make them, thinking that perhaps there was a hint in his mention, and that he had enough on his pot-luck plate. He seemed reluctant and non-committal, so I said, "What, you don't want some white woman making your Thanksgiving yams?". To which he replied, "Well, I didn't want to say it, but since you did, yes. Trust me honey, I'll be making the yams."

Thank god. The tradition of Thanksgiving bullying continues!