I’m talking about the Holiday two days after the fact but my body’s still bloated and I’ve got liquified corn soufflé rushing through my veins so it’s totally fine.

I suppose I underestimated the task at hand when I promised my residents that I’d cook an entire Thanksgiving Dinner for the holiday. It was to consist of a turkey, sautéed kale with bacon and baked in cheddar, lemon potatoes, sweet potato fries, green bean casserole, corn casserole, and Cuban stuffing.

I absolutely refuse to write out all the recipes. That’s not my job. I spent seven hours playing the guessing game. One of those hours was spent peeling the casing off Chorizos while the remaining six were spent under the impression that enough butter would make anything taste incredible. And bacon. Butter and Bacon and Salt, actually. I wasn’t wrong.

I kinda felt like I’d brought back the fallen Roman Empire. Not only was I able to pump out six side dishes along with my first turkey (stuffed with thyme, lemon, heads of garlic, and coated in 4 sticks of butter), but I was able to have time to myself; to go for walks and grab cups of coffee and embrace the Mauve and crisp New York City, autumn air. I even saw a cat on top of a man.

It was a Thanksgiving Day miracle.

That night at seven fifteen, I was joined by seven residents who didn’t have anywhere else to be. We pretended our organic apple cider was spiked with Maker’s Mark and dove into the buffet. They all loved it, and that’s all I could really ask for.

I feel as a general rule of thumb, Thanksgiving is never about the turkey. Like, the turkey is always the last thing people go for. It’s surpassed tradition and fallen into the category of mundane expectation. It needs to be there and it needs to be observed and it needs to be eaten. Time and time again people try to step up their turkey game, by covering it in Bacon, or basting it three nights before for five hours at a time… but it always tastes the same. Every single year. It always tastes the exact same; soporifically bland and mealy.

After dinner, we all kicked back about three cups of coffee each and then separated ways. Soon after, a few of my friends and I met up and went to a 7-11 and picked up 40s of PBR. We poured away the aftertaste of seven hours of cooking and 20 minutes of consuming, and soon after, I came home and fell asleep to online videos of Roller Coasters and whatever fell under the search for ‘funny cats’.

Now I’m getting ready for a dinner at Quality Meats and a walk down Fifth Avenue to the LES for PBR at Welcome to the Johnson’s. It’s funny how we follow through on something rather incredible and remarkably prepared with something simple and sloppy and sometimes, If you’re lucky, less than $3.



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