The Ghost of Thanksgiving Past

“Girl, you know I’m gonna get that turkey in the oven come hell or hangover.” Gigi’s eyes had the hooded, woozy look of someone who had no intention of moving. “C’monnnn,” she stretched her words and smiled like a Cheshire Cat, “let’s just have one more Mo-jiiii-to. They’re the best in town.”

We’d been having drinks after hours with the staff at Bruno’s and the guys were being generous. A Chimay found its way into my hand, someone shared an off-color anecdote about Dave Matthews, and none of us had to work the next day: it was Thanksgiving eve.

The following morning at 7am, I awoke to the angry banging of pots. I’d crashed out on Gigi’s couch and could just glimpse the outline of her hair as she moved around the kitchen. Her footsteps were slow and heavy, and I could feel the intensity of her silent cursing.

In college, I’d always gone home with friends, rather than fly back to Louisiana during the short Thanksgiving holiday. Years of being the orphan at the table had left me with no experience preparing for the big feast. This would be my first time celebrating as a full-fledged adult, and I’d become inexplicably attached to the idea of making oyster dressing. Maybe it was because I was feeling nostalgic for it, but the more likely explanation is that I’d been drunk when I committed myself to the endeavor. I’d never made the dish before; nor had I ever dealt with any of its key components – namely, cornbread and oysters.

“Does anybody know how to make cornbread?” I asked, already guessing the answer and half-panicking.

Aiden shook his head and continued stuffing dumplings with a mixture of ground chicken and ginger, “Can’t you buy a mix for it?”

Laura nodded as she trimmed the Brussels sprouts. “I’ve seen it before. It’s like a blue and white box.”

“Okay, I’ll worry about that later…um,” I poked at the pile of oysters sitting on the table. “How the hell do you get the flesh out?”

We took turns hacking at them with a butter knife, but the oysters remained firmly, tenaciously, encased in their shells. Things were not looking good for my dressing. Feeling defeated by the stubborn mollusks, we all agreed it was time to open a bottle of wine. That’s when Aiden had a flash of genius and fished a hammer out of the pantry.

The end result was sadly less than spectacular. All I could find was a box of Jiffy mix, and the cornbread was far too sweet. There were bits of oyster shell scattered throughout. Plus, I’d been too stingy with the sage. But still, the dinner was a smashing success. The turkey was beautiful, and the house was filled with delicious aromas, abundant food, and good friends. We sat around for hours eating and laughing, until Laura read a passage calling attention to the decimation of the Native Americans. It was San Francisco at the end of the millennium and it was important to show that we weren’t merely gluttonous – we were gluttonous and politically aware.

Now, I have mastered the art of making oyster stuffing and no longer require the assistance of Jiffy mix or hammers, although I don’t make it often. Living in Japan, where, for obvious reasons, Thanksgiving is not a holiday, I often forget about it. This year, however, I made a special effort to celebrate, if even in a minor way. Call me superstitious (as well as cheesy), but in troubled times like these, I think it’s important to take stock of the good things in your life. Here are a few of mine…

JP, who keeps me as close to sane as I have ever been.

Misha, who provides us with so many tales of mischief.

My family, who, despite the fact that I’m often remiss in my correspondence, continues to love me.

My friends, who always laugh at my crappy jokes.

My boss, who was the first person to take a chance on me as a writer.

And I mustn’t forget sake and wine, two things that give shape and meaning to my life.

I know it’s late, but Happy Thanksgiving, everyone! We’re still making our way through the cornbread dressing over here.