Moveable Feast

Some trips feel like a moon launch. Everything you need or think you might possibly need is packed to go as if the destination is off-world. Maybe it’s to clean out your refrigerator, or avoid going to the grocery once you get there. Either way, the food is racking up the miles.

With family members coming from four states, converging on the epicenter of the reunion, we each want to contribute to the menu. We divvied up the dishes, and bought components. The voice in my head said, what if we need more butter, or celery, or snacks? And wouldn’t it be fun to bring some local treats to share? Turns out everyone had the same impulse: we have candies, cakes, cheeses, beverages and not enough refrigerator or counter space for it all.

With so many of us, the unlikely concern forms that we might not have enough food. Even though the turkey is larger than any we’ve ever cooked, the stuffing is abundant, there are multiple sides and rich gravy. If a grocery store was open, I think someone might make a run for another vegetable. But going anywhere means rearranging the cars in the driveway, and keys are in that jumbled pile of coats on the bed, so we stay put.

Roasting is underway; we arrange snacks and nibbles meant to stave off hunger till the main event is ready but they don’t seem to adequately answer the question from hungry teens who want to know when we’re having lunch.

Finally it’s time. We pull every chair around the table till we rub elbows. Everything is perfect – in fact, it’s a Thanksgiving miracle – the food is delicious, moist, colorful, and everything that should be hot is hot. We eat and laugh and pose for pictures; have seconds and thirds until we’re all too full to breathe. Then we remember there are pies.

After more conversation, laughter and dishes, we pack the leftovers and there seems to be as much food to take home as we started with. All the Tupperware is filled, ready to travel across state lines. Maybe in a few days, I’ll be ready for a turkey sandwich and some homemade soup. And I’ll wonder who ate all that pie.

Mixed Memory

There’s a hole in my memory, something I can’t recall. I must have known it once and it’s been pushed aside by newer experiences. What were my childhood Thanksgivings like?

I remember the Thanksgiving when we had a gigantic stuffed fish instead of a turkey (stuffed with what?) I’m sure we had many more with the traditional turkey and dressing, mashed potatoes and gravy…didn’t we? All the feasts involved the good china, the silver, and candles that I got to light. There was a turkey or ham or roast beef that needed to be carved. Sometimes an aunt, uncle and cousins came. The table overflowed with good things and still there were leftovers. There was pie and whipped cream. Clean up included getting the turkey carcass into the stockpot for soup.

As much as I think I’ve organized all my memories into neat, labeled picture albums, it’s as if someone came in and threw all of the pages into a pile and reassembled them randomly. Maybe that fish was Christmas. What happened to that electric carving knife? Did we really never have a green bean casserole? 

What I don’t have are many memories of the preparation of the feast. Not the shopping; not the calculations of turkey cooking time; not how all the side dishes could arrive at the table still warm. Maybe it was better that I not be underfoot until I could really be helpful. I cubed bread that we’d leave out the night before to dry for the dressing. Maybe I mixed a pie filling. Did I mash potatoes? I’m sure I never made the gravy. And yet, some idea of what the menu should include was formed in my mind.

Married with kids, we created feasts that theoretically reflected our collective childhood holidays. We may have also been channeling the iconic Norman Rockwell painting: the big spread in the dining room with a tablecloth, china, silver, and candles. We urged the kids to watch a video while we wrestled the turkey. When they were older, they helped with the prep and became advocates of their favorites part of the meal. I learned how to get red wax stains out of the tablecloth. 

So approaching the holiday, I pull out my spattered recipes and start thinking of the logistics of the big meal, how to accommodate everyone’s favorites, whether the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade will be enough of a draw to keep the kids out of the kitchen. How many snacks do we offer to stave off hunger when the roasting and mashing and gravy making takes longer than planned? I will hide the candles and make room in my head for the new memories we’ll be making.

Final Girl

It’s quiet in the empty office. Tapping away on my computer, I expect to have a productive day, until I hear a voice. Peeking up over the cubicle wall I see a man I don’t recognize – and he’s between me and the exit. I consider whether my stapler could be a weapon.

I’ve seen my share of scary movies, the kind with monsters, aliens, supernatural creatures or just plain-old deranged humans. Victims get picked off, often before their friends even know what’s happening, and sometimes the “last man standing” is a brave female character. While it’s not a new concept, I recently learned of the “final girl” movie trope, referring to the last girl or woman alive to confront the killer, and the one left to tell the tale.

This trope is often paired with the set-up where a group of clueless people manage to wander away one at a time, so much the easier to be killed by the mysterious assailant. No matter how loudly you yell at the screen – “Stay together! Don’t go in there!” – the hapless characters do it anyway and end up dead. All except for the final girl who fights back and prevails. Think Laurie Strode in Halloween or Ellen Ripley in the Alien movies. 

There’s usually a creepy landscape to traverse: a big old house with lots of rooms, a farm with dilapidated outbuildings, a boathouse, a labyrinthine spaceship with pipes and secret compartments, a maze of wet subway tunnels. I’m in a brightly lit office with views of the Chicago skyline.

When forced to defend themselves, these heroines use their wits and whatever weapons they can find or fashion. They scream, they curse, they may be scantily clad. I’m wearing a turtleneck, corduroys and flats. I do not have a flamethrower or anything more dangerous than packing tape or the ability to cause paper cuts.

So, of course, I jump up from my chair with nothing but my phone, and head right toward this stranger standing in the office lobby. I pass a side exit door and think if I run out that way, I will still have to pass the main entrance to get to the elevator or the stairs. I decide that won’t help. Instead, I extend a friendly greeting to see if I can find out who this is and why he’s here.

“I’m from Staples, and they called me to come fix the coffee machine. Can you show me where it is?” It may be a clever ruse, and I still don’t know how he got into our locked office without a badge, but I lead him to the kitchen. While he’s examining the machine, I get a message from the office receptionist (who is working remotely) that the repair man is on his way and she can unlock the door for him. Well, lucky I didn’t try to bludgeon him with a coffee pot.  

Where in the World

Most of the time street signs or familiar buildings provide all the orientation I need. If consulting the GPS, that comforting blue dot on the map says “You Are Here” and step by step instructions take me to specific places with an address. But what if you need to find a place without an address?

My directions include more details than a mapping app: “take a soft left at the big intersection by the new Whole Foods and look for the former movie palace with the ornate facade. If you get to the Walgreen’s you’ve gone too far.” The building has an address over the front door, but it’s not as prominent as that elaborate facade, or as noticeable as the Walgreen’s parking lot. I think of instructions like this as more helpful, foolproof and customized than the GPS, though they are rarely what the Lyft driver will use to find me (and why they often end up in the Walgreen’s parking lot).  

I recently read The Address Book and learned there are many places in the rural U.S. without addresses. The author recounted her attempt to visit a man in West Virginia who lives in a house without a number on a street that never had a name. His mail goes to a post office box, but some things, like UPS delivery, an ambulance, or a friendly visitor, need to know how to actually find your house. The directions were to look for a trucking company, take the fork in the road by the large pine, pass the preacher’s house, and turn onto the gravel path. For folks familiar with the area, those landmarks would be meaningful; for others, not so much.

When I’m visiting Louisville, I usually have no trouble finding my way, but since new roads and stores have appeared, or other places have transformed, I may need directions. While the destination has a precise address, we have never known it, so the directions sound like this: drive past the former movie theatre, down to the light where that new bank replaced the White Castle, keep going till you get to the intersection past the old Bacon’s, take a left, then a sharp left then a right over the train tracks, turn right again and there you are! Some Louisvillian readers may be able to visualize exactly where they are. 

That location is also known as wasps.barrage.good to the what3words app – an addressing tool that divides the world into three by three meter squares, assigning a unique set of three words to each square. With this app, you can pinpoint any location, whether it has a formal address or not. So, I could identify the specific park bench I want you to visit for that exchange of spy secrets, or which corner of the concert venue I’m standing in. Now, any place can be “found” though I’m not sure my online shopping order will know what to do with an address like error.dish.joke.