So yesterday was our Designated Alternate Holiday of Gratitude, postponed from last Thursday due to various reasons mainly involving the complex interplay of the juxtaposition of a bunch of stuff nobody cares about. Actually, it was just the best day to have it on so that our families could attend if they so desired. This had the added benefit of enabling our exes to have the kids for Thanksgiving also with their families, and gave us a nice day off to loaf. We spent it eating cheeseburgers and drinking beer in a grown-ups-only theater (not to be confused with an adult theater, this was over-21 due to the alcohol) watching Harry Potter and Friends doing their increasingly difficult and foreboding Thing.
Anyway, back to the DAHG. We have a tabletop roaster, which is a highly specialized item considering what slouches we are about cooking. I do own a copy of The Joy of Cooking but when I got to the part about “how to field dress a squirrel” I figured I’d stick with good old Betty Crocker, and she has never steered me wrong. I have yet to feel obligated to purchase a candy thermometer or anything involving parchment. But anyway, this roaster makes a particularly excellent turkey as well as freeing up the oven for the twenty seven distinct mandatory side dishes. Okay, not quite twenty seven, perhaps, but there were several and the oven was in high rotation.
The turkey was delicious, not overly large, and has been sufficiently dealt with such that there is no bulky, annoying carcass taking up half the fridge. Once there was a day that I would have simmered it down and made soup out of it but I’m just not that into picking bones and little springy things out of scalding hot broth any more, so it was enough to salvage the meat off of it and call it good. Life is short and chicken broth is sold in cunning little cartons at the supermarket nowadays. Half the leftover meat will make turkey and dumplings tomorrow night and the other half is in frozen reserve for some future need.
Anyway, this was the momentous First Ever Meeting of our parents, after two and a half years together, and it went smoothly. We turned on a soothing sporting event for the father figures and before too long we heard snippets of Man Conversation from the living room. When we heard “30 amp panel” we knew they were on solid footing, and there may even be Man Playdates in their futures. The moms hung around the kitchen table drinking coffee and talking about grandkids and food and stuff like that. It was deeply, pleasantly impersonal and I for one am eager to keep it that way.
When it was all over and everyone was gone, we cleaned the rest of the mess up and retired in our clean, warm house to a delightful evening of random heroics and epic quest lines in the land of Warcraft. Would that every holiday should go thusly.