Mashed Potatoes Should Not Be Viscous

Thanksgiving turned out to be everything that it promised to be…and more. A brief synopsis of each stop follows.

First and foremost my most heartfelt thanks goes to those who so graciously opened their homes to me. Its true, I am transplanted from the left to the right. Holidays always present me with a dilemma. Do I stay in and mope or go out and join someone else's holiday festivities. Going somewhere else is always slightly strange to me; I've got some strange issue. Lucky for me, this holiday, I conquered them and was able to metabolize a pumpkin. Here is the truth of the matter about what follows: I am a sardonic jack-ass who somehow fails to convey the breadth of appreciation for my friends and how they take care of me...especially on holidays and days ending in y.

I: I have not eaten that much in quite some time. We get to the house; the driveway is filled with Benzes and Escalades, and walk inside. Immediately, my ears are overtaken by the cacophony coming from the makeshift dining room—the sound of family was refreshing. On a side note I rue the day when the whole of the B__ family has spouses and childs and gets together for a family meal. The feast was simply marvelous and never seemed to end. I am not surprised that the food was so good though, they owned a small deli in town. Unfortunately we had to leave and move on to the next place, where the fun was really about to start.

J: I did not even make it in the front door. As soon as we arrived the theme for the rest of the day became evident and how trite it was—I was from ‘the’ O.C. I walked through the front door, was accosted by an obviously inebriated man and promptly introduced to everyone as J__’s law school friend, “you know he’s from the O.C.? Really, I love the O.C.” I moved across the country in small part to leave that place…it seems to keep following me.

J.2: I was warned prior to our arrival at Cousin X’s house that the food would be bad. Indeed, I was warned weeks ahead of time when the invitation to give thanks was first extended. I had no idea. Part of the reason I accepted this invitation, amongst the thousands received, was in no small part to see what a Mexican-Jewish thanksgiving feast looked like. I admit that my eyes wanted to see what it looked like more than my mouth wanted to know what it tasted like. The appetizers were simply beyond the pale—so far beyond that I couldn’t even be polite and attempt a bite. Thank god for the excuse of being too full from the prior glorious feast. Let me explain these appetizers if I may. Keep in mind that I’m the most Mexican in the place. What I believe was guacamole, looked more like pond scum. There was the introduction of a ‘new’ appetizer, which was introduced with great aplomb, The Chicken Quesadilla. I ask you all to picture if you will a triangle of blackened flour tortilla, held together with a piece of chicken leg meat, a strand of jack, and something translucent. There were also a variety of Tex-Mex looking dishes that also were quite appealing.

J.3: The main course. I have to admit I was somewhat disappointed. I was told that the main course would be Mexican themed as well. Alas, it was not. Traditional Thanksgiving dishes swept the day. Truth be told I was satiated, but in an attempt to be polite, I intended to eat some more. I picked up a plate and the first thing I encountered was the mashed potato. I think that it is fairly well accepted by most non-culinary geniuses that the production of the dish called the mashed potato is not terribly difficult. Indeed, I’d venture to say that it is a staple dish across the United States and the world which most households have no difficulty making. Cousin X’s household is not such a household. Mashed potatoes should not be viscous. They should not be pureed. But they were and they set the tone for the rest of my plate. As I finished making my way around the buffet island and headed toward my seat. I looked down at my plate and laughed on the inside. I had plated the meal in a manner reminiscent of some type of haute cuisine tasting plate—small silver dollar size medallions of everything dotted the plate. I sat an intimate table and the company was good. I removed my napkin from its ring and unfolded it. I love it when the white linen has brown stains all over. I was so excited to clean my lips with that sparkling piece of fabric. I took a bite of the mashed potatoes for the elderly…and almost vomited. Now, I’m discerning when it comes to food, but will try anything and can usually put on a good face in the name of etiquette. Not this night. The few at the table laughed and inquired why I was eating, we went to the Italians to eat, and we were here to make an appearance. I reverted to childhood and followed their example. I moved all the food around on the plate and crumbled the piece of hard tack. The meal was complete.

Mini-Js: We left the house of Cousin X and proceeded toward the final stop of the evening, picking up friends of J__ along the way. We arrived and entered. I immediately felt as if I was in the Semitic munchkin world. It was scary how diminutive the crowd was. I mingled briefly and found myself at the end of a very long table, opposite someone who I conversated with. She stood on the other side of the table and was first in a long line of people on the other side of the table, none of whom were listening to our conversation.

Mini-Js.2: That is until the theme for the evening reared its ugly head. Just as I thought I was going to get out of the conversation, the dreaded question came, “Where are you from?” I contemplated lying and wish I did. In the future, I am going to tell my story. I was an orphan abandoned in the streets of Quito by my missionary parents who became disillusioned with the apostles creed and became smack addicts. I was raised by a pack of traveling homeless and by the age of nine had seen the whole of South America, sans the Falklands. I was kidnapped around the age of eleven by the galley mate of a Chilean tortoise boat. I traveled the high seas until my early teens learning the trade of fine sea cuisine for the most refined of connoisseurs. During one particularly obscene tempest we were carried off course and ended up somewhere along the Pacific coast near Victoria, B.C. It was there that the greatest water spot in human history struck our tiny vessel and carried me off, eventually it struck land and tore a swath through Western Canada, finally and miraculously depositing me in Winnipeg. There I lived on the streets and working in a used book store. I read voraciously and soon was holding lectures on a weekly basis on a variety of issues from home-building to Zoroastrian theology. A lesbian couple adopted me prior to my 18th birthday, gave me a place to live and sponsored my asylum claim. Upon completion of university I discovered who my birth parents were, used them to become a U.S. citizen and eventually left the confines of Winnipeg for the big city.

Mini-Js.3: Alas, I told the truth, I am from California. And the nightmare began. This paragraph is too long. Just as I finished the telling of my story, the woman adjacent to the one whom I was speaking to picked up on the O.C. part and exclaimed, “I’ve been to the O.C.” Great, like I give a fuck, but let me indulge you for moment, for the sake of etiquette. I told the story again. Then, out of nowhere the scene repeated itself. The man next to her at the end of our conversation, “Oh, I’ve been to California once.” Great, good for you, I’ve been to Cheyenne, Wyoming once but you don’t see me interrupting conversations to announce to the crowd where my various travels have taken me. But again, I’ll indulge. By now the peanut gallery is paying attention and starting to chuckle, later they would break out into whole-hearted guffaws. The scene and conversation must have repeated itself at least six times…it was interminable. Thankfully, we left, I was exhausted.

I had a blast and likely won’t be doing it again, but the day gave me memories and stories for a lifetime.

Also, don’t steal my life story when you don’t want to tell someone where you are from.