Well, sort of...For Thanksgiving at least. After much cheek and charm (re: hugely inappropriate and over-familiar behaviour) I bagged an invite to the most prestigious and coveted November event: Thanksgiving chez Roach.
This was no easy feat. A year's work of general brown nosing and badgering paved the path to Cambridge, our dearly departed Becky (who left the hallowed halls of Vague House for academia and the pursuit of truth and knowledge... I know, I don't get it either) and the residence of eco warrior Martin and domestic Goddess Sally.
Thanksgiving is an uncomplicated holiday. It consists of one day, and one day alone. No time need be spent trawling the streets for the perfect tree/present/decorative reindeer. No need to spend the month prior organising wayward relatives, or seeking out remedies for Christmas card induced writer's cramp. In fact, aside from the chef (from whom all Thanksgiving goodness flows) all you really need to do is select something smock shaped to wear and brush up on your boardgame skills. Neither of which are particularly arduous tasks.
My Thanksgiving was the perfect Thanksgiving. A five mile walk, punctuated with gossip and a stop for carrot cake and scones. A practice round of articulate while our limbs recovered and we warmed by the fire. The feast. Turkey, sweet potato, mashed potato, two rounds of stuffing, corn muffins, green beans with tomato relish. Three deserts. Apple pie, toffee and dried fruit tart, pumpkin and ginger cheesecake. Champagne, wine, chocolates and peppermint tea. Artery overload, resulting in gorged appearance of one well into their second trimester. A contented train journey back to London Town, late at night. Sated and Serene.
I give thanks to my wonderful friend and her incredibly kind and welcoming family. My first Thanksgiving, my best Thanksgiving. Definitely not my last Thanksgiving. (Please Sally? x)
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment