We had a lovely Thanksgiving this year—my wife pronounced it one of our all-time bests. We had our usual menu which I’ve described before. The table was set with our good china and silver, decorated beautifully as my wife always does. I was hard at work in the kitchen as usual.
There was one addition to the menu this year: I’d decided to experiment with a lemon chiffon pie. One of our guests is on a gluten-free diet so I picked up a pre-fab gluten-free pie crust at Whole Foods. The pie turned out quite well. It was very intense and very nearly demanded whipped cream. I’ll repeat my regular admonition—if the package lists any ingredients other than whipping cream, you’re wasting your money.
This year we had four guests, a relatively small group compared with prior years. All were significantly younger than we: a friend we’ve known for many years with no family in town who’s sort of adopted us, a nephew of mine who’s found a job in Chicago and is living with us until he gets settled in a place of his own, and two young friends—the daughter of dear old friends of ours whom we’ve known since birth and her beau, a very nice kid of whom we’ve quite fond.
We occupy a niche for these younger friends somewhere between friends and family—sort of a combination of friend and foster parent. Older and more established than most of their friends, less stress than their parents. It’s nice to be selected.
Last night we capped off Thanksgiving weekend with our traditional Sunday-after menu: smoked turkey chilaquiles.
Thanksgiving is hard work. I’m still recovering.