I abdicated on going out to a Thanksgiving feast this evening as I was a bit under the weather, and I didn't want to be around people, or be hacking on everyone. I was glad for the excuse. I wasn’t up for it, and couldn’t rise to the occasion. Also, I'm a bit turkey'd out from my impromptu self-thrown birthday bash on Tues. And we've another birthday party lined up for Saturday (not mine), and a huge Thanksgiving feast to attend on Sunday! Pacing myself.
See, I bought a bird for Thanksgiving, and all the trimmings, but Neil got a last-minute invite to an old friend’s party. I could see that he’d rather be with them, than staying home with me. It was pretty obvious. No loyalty toward the sick here. Not his kind of thing. Celebrating Thanksgiving at their house was his tradition, not mine.
Truth be known, I didn’t particularly enjoy being around them—over the top Orinda suburbia is so much work, so I was glad for an excuse not to go. No forced cadaver smiles and inane chitchat for the crowd. He lives for that kind of stuff, for me it’s sheer agony on a good day. It takes up too much energy and bandwidth, of which I’m in short supply. He went on to the party alone. House to myself. Blessed peace and quiet with a little downtime for dessert.
Unfortunately, if I don't feel great, my make-happy face slapped on haphazardly for a crowd of relative strangers, is arguably the same face as my resting bitch face. I can’t fake that stuff. And there’s always the inevitable mention of my inconvenient birthday, no one wants to acknowledge they missed again, hastily swept under the carpet. Not the same as being with family. They forget my birthday too but I don’t have to put on a happy face for them. Mind your Ps & Qs and all that. (My cousins had to work, so we'll probably also have a make-up date there as well.)
You know how sound is so visceral when you don't feel good? Almost like having synaesthesia. Flannelly, with vague popcorn overtones. Couldn't abide the hubbub of a party. Besides, I’m dozy, and gravelly-eyed with nurgling innards, and a cough, Ugh. I picked up something a while ago and I got chilled and overtired, and it came knocking back. Virus, though, not flu.
Since Neil was away to the burbs for Thanksgiving, I needed to cook that blasted bird brining away in a beer cooler swamp in the back yard. I've never brined a turkey before. (Thank you Alton Brown!) So I threw meself a wee surprise party and cooked the turkey on Tuesday—I was surprised that it was so divine, and the brined carcass made for a great soup. Just don’t add salt.
I think I'm just peopled out too. I cleaned up after my party yesterday, made the soup straightaway, but I felt like I was in a quagmire of quicksand. And I kept thinking I'm just overtired, until about 4 AM—when it struck with a vengeance. I began feeling better by the afternoon, but I was lying down all day. I sure didn't want to face a roomful of strangers, all I could envision was curling up with a book, OK, well, so it's a warm MacBook purring on my lap, a Kindle app, and soup.
Grandma always made soup from chickens and turkey carcasses so it comes natural to me. I make a pretty good soup too. Lots of vitamins & minerals in the carcass, so it's a good ting to have. Most people don't know how to make soup, which is sad, as it was such a staple in our house. Nothing out of cans and cartons—like now. Secret is to add a lot of wine or vinegar to the broth to draw the goodies out. Don't boil it too hard either. Lots of whatever's left over in the fridge goes in the pot too. Lots of onion and garlic. The idea of soup is a longed for time, home in the distant past.
Tuesday's turkey carcass is now a lovely soup, which I made yesterday. Apparently, for today. Soop, beautiful soop. That's all that I live for... Happy Thanksgiving from the soup pot. And with a nod to Oliver, the Musical. Soon enough it will be time to gird your loins, let the Christmas season commence.
From a Facebook post, added, rev. 11.26.20
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