Cookie – extra strong opinions

Some of my timing was off—I have only two ovens. But I think I came into the Thanksgiving meal as open-hearted as I ever am (period,) and I felt like I meant it when I told the family— both sides, all siblings, all parents— that they were welcome to offer a blessing of their choice before I started around with the platter of turkey, as long as they said it silently, so we could all live and let live, man. I guess I got flustered anyway—I mean, even though my intentions were honest—because I remember being heckled a little, and then, as a result, not allowing people time to be introspective or thankful, and then hearing myself say “amen.” Grandmother Shippy is scolding me gently from wherever she believes she ascended/went/is. But mostly for the texture of the chocolate silk pie—I can’t find her recipe.

Maybe I should have given a toast instead. Not the kind where I lose a $40 bet because Cookie always keeps his wits, and ten minutes is a long time to let a nice Malbec go untouched when you’re eating a hamburger. Probably also not the kind Pete Evans gives at the end of every episode of Moveable Feast by Fine Cooking. (If that is the official name of the show, they just got the extra strong opinions equivalent of the Colbert Bump.) It was hard to imagine why anyone would want or need a non-competitive cooking show not starring Christopher Kimball, but I DVR’d it because I heard Marcus Samuelsson was going to be making his yardbird, and I wondered if I could cut any corners next time. (No.) Pete Evans’ huge, relentless smile, Alex DeLarge eyes, and fake Australian accent make it infomercial-addictive. Well, the internet says he’s fair dinkum Australian, but he sounds like an Outback Steakhouse commercial, and I don’t mind saying something a little biting, because he thinks the Paleo diet can cure autism. After raving to Kay about this guy, and trying out my own Australian accent on her—it cuts in and out, but I can do “nice carrot salad” consistently—I went back to see if I was remembering him correctly. He must go on and off his meds–it seems unlikely his enthusiasm for San Francisco chocolate is simply 1000 times greater than his enthusiasm for New England bivalves. Then again, I suppose the imperative to misappropriate Hemingway at the end of every show was likely not his decision. But if there’s one thing the holidays and family remind us, it’s that it doesn’t matter whom you blame, just find someone close to you.

When I get the feeling a dinner party is winding down, I like to pass out a nice digestif–a white port or airplane bottles of Jägermeister. Depending on how that goes over, I might then ask if anybody wants to go to Philly, which tends to make me feel a little like a sitcom dad trying to get laid. I wonder if they, too, get their feelings hurt when they are rebuffed every day except their birthday. I always rein it in though, because appearances are so important (I didn’t say to me–that would sound shallow.) An aside: I was talking to Cookie the other day about how much I think I would enjoy being the girl Jimmy Buffett, except that–my talent for rhyme and my enthusiasm for mustaches of all thicknesses aside–I would just end up looking like some lush with a tambourine (I don’t play the guitar) because middle aged girl drunks are somewhat less accepted. I’ve been self-Pygmalioning my tipsy voice ever since I heard it on the iPhone video where Kay and I were trying to find a fox(?) on the walk home from Murph’s(?) in recognition of that particular double standard. Darn. You know, I think the Jimmy Buffett conversation was with Jay, not Cookie. I must have been pretty high at the time. On alcohol, mother. No, wait–life.

The problem is, and I’m not blaming anyone in particular here, but when I don’t get to go to Philly, that energy has to be redirected somewhere (I took two semesters of physics for non-majors–I’m pretty sure this is called “friction”) and a lot of times I redirect the energy into getting injured. I tried to get people to go to Philly, at least in spirit, when we were in St. Lucia last week, and they totally wouldn’t, so I fell down the steps. This might mean I won’t get to run the New York Marathon on Sunday, or that my heel will start bleeding and I will have to cut out early and find a falafel cart. I bet I will also cry, tears usually reserved for certain less-pageanty passages of Beethoven, and the time I swallowed a fly while running in Brandywine Creek State Park. But that’s a good thing, because a lot of people think I don’t have feelings, which isn’t true. Also I bleed a lot.