As I’ve become an adult, and moved from city to city, making loads of friends along the way, I find myself celebrating holiday meals more frequently with my urban families. And I quite like it. Sure, nothing is better than waking up in your childhood bed, in your childhood house, to smell pancakes being cooked and coffee being perked. But with your urban family, you don’t have to watch your mouth. You can bitch about your nuclear family. You can drink wine to your heart’s content without your mother giving you the “how many glasses is that, young lady?” eye. It’s a whole different kind of holiday ritual.
There have been two memorable Thanksgiving celebrations with urban families. One that I recall with great fondness again and again—and one that gives me incredible heartburn.
My husband and I were living in Seattle. It was the first holiday we decided to stay put and not fight the crowds and high airplane ticket prices to spend the holiday with either of our families, who lived far from our cloudy, wet corner of the country. We were perfectly happy spending Thanksgiving in our downtown Seattle loft watching football, old movies, and eating turkey. However, we received a last-minute invitation from a friend of a friend that somehow convinced us to agree to attend what will forever be known as “The Thanksgiving we transported a turkey across town and nearly got kicked out of dinner.”
Three Southern Belles, whom we were only vaguely friends with, were hosting dinner. They seemed nice enough and we thought they had the southern manners to go with their sugary sweet accents. But, when we asked what to bring to dinner, the answer was not a salad or a bottle of wine, which is standard. They asked us to bring the turkey. The freaking turkey! We were asked to cook a turkey for a dinner party of twelve people—barely knowing only three of the attendees—and transport it across town to the hostesses’ house.
Yes, it’s as odd and backward as it sounds. But we did it. We decided to seize the opportunity, summon our inner chefs and create the most gourmet ten-pound turkey possible. We made a homemade herb butter and lovingly coated that turkey inside and out with a blanket of herby goodness. We watched the big bird cook for five hours becoming more and more succulent with every increase of the thermometer. We withstood pestering phone calls from Southern Belle #1 every thirty minutes wondering, “What are y’all doing? Are y’all about ready to come over? We’re all real hungry over here.” With great trepidation we transported the large, golden, buttery bird in the floorboard of our small car across town. We presented it with the pride of new parents.
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