First the important part: I am thankful that unlike my first or second year in Portland, this year I once again did not step on a carpet tack the first thing Thanksgiving morning, setting up a trip to the emergency room at the end of the evening once dinner was over.
Also once again, Thanksgiving involved more or less the same constellation of friends and acquaintances who have Thanksgiving together every year. In my continuing tryptophan stupor, here’s what I recall of the menu.
- Turkey. Real, actual turkey. Not all of us Portlanders do the tofu thing.
- Mashed potatoes. Real, actual mashed potatoes, not instant.
- Sweet potatoes. Squishy delicious sweet potatoes wrapped in foil.
- Roasted root vegetables. Beets, parsnips, and turnips.
- Cranberry sauce. The proper kind with the can’s ridges imprinted into it.
- Tabouli salad. My non-traditional and homemade contribution to the dinner.
- Squash soup. This apparently qualifies as tradition now, since it was the second year running.
Some sort of dinner rolls.
There was stuffing I never got around to. And there was gravy, of course, which naturally found its way not only onto the turkey but into a fork-dug crater in the top of the mashed potatoes.
Hot chocolate and some sort of schnapps was had, including at the same time there was wine with dinner. I never did get around to having any of the six-pack of Jubelale I brought (it’s Jubelale season!), so I confiscated one of the bottles to take back home with me.
Oh, yes, and the pie. There was pumpkin pie and cheesecake, but I stuck with the key lime pie. The gland-swelling, eye-squinting key lime pie. Two pieces. Or maybe it was three. Or maybe the third is the one I brought home amongst the leftovers. I don’t know, but it was good.