this time last year the girl who owns these hats bought us a turkey from the farmer’s market. and some other stuff too, stuff with dirt still on it and stuff with green leaves on it still, green leaves i hadn’t known about before. and for the rest, we trekked to the grocery store, and walk back with the shopping cart, up two hills and down one, and emptied everything into her fridge and reconvened the next day to get started.
it was all kinds of roll of your sleeves work. i ate the whole time. while another friend drew cartoons of us cooking, in between cutting the squash. there were moments of hesitation, and in those moments we’d call my friends mom, and she’d talk us through it. i remember being surprised by her accent on the phone. now i can’t remember it of course, but it caught me off guard, it was simultaneously brisk and tender as though my friend’s mom had just returned from a walk in the woods and was making dough from scratch.
we cooked until everything on the menu was done. and when it came time to sit down, our cheeks were all red, and our guts were all ready. (though i had been snacking the whole time.)
i remember passing things down the table, and thinking that no matter how old i get, passing a heavy bowl of mashed potatoes or stuffing, will always make me feel like a kid whose wrists might snap under the pressure; the pressure and the anticipation.
this year, we’re all in different places. i have a few of my loves in london, one who’s probably already made six pies. she’s probably made the kind of pies that look too good to eat, the kind that i would inevitably ruin by cutting the pieces all wrong. and then there’s the two in boston, who i can only imagine are in a loud kitchen; the loudest of kitchen, the kind of kitchen in the movies where women’s bangles bang on the counter top as they chop, and jingle as they stir. and another friend, she’s in chicago with her family, where she still sits at the kid’s table and runs back her grandparents’ room when nobody is looking to check the basketball score.
i’m headed to a dinner with one of my favorite families. i can’t wait. i’ve waited all week.
one day i hope to have one of those long cutting board tables. the kind that stretches long that half the time has old newspapers on it, and my laptop and notes and a bowl of half rotten fruit. but it’s also the table that everyone comes to. i can’t wait ‘til one of us has the table that everyone comes to.