The little solo Thanksgiving I planned grew a little bit. On Wednesday night, I headed out with BC and his boyfriend for a few pre-holiday cocktails and as the night wore on, I heard about a few other solo Thanksgiving types. A friend whose mother was in the hospital and had nowhere to go. Former guests of mine who didn’t know I wasn’t hosting until the last minute. Two neighbors with no cooking plans. My mini-me, whose family had eaten the weekend before. Another friend whose mom might not make it in time for their lunch reservations due to snow. And so, by midnight, I had texted out invites to six or seven orphans.
I woke up on Thursday, loaded the twelve-pound bird into the oven, threw together my collected side-items, and waited to see who would show up. And by mid-afternoon there were three of us, tucked in around giant heaping plates of gravy-laden goodness. We followed up the meal with the old black-and-white “Miracle on 34th Street” on TV. Then Mini-Me hung out until dark for a girl-fest- doing our nails, playing with Bump-Its, and watching ThanksKilling on Netflix.
Over the weekend, I passed out leftovers to anyone who stopped by: cornbread stuffing, turnip greens, mashed potatoes, turkey, gravy, sweet potato casserole, green bean casserole, pumpkin pie- anything the fridge was overflowing with.
This Thanksgiving, I was most thankful for enough food to share, for a home to host anyone that needed it, and for an extended family of friends who knew they would be welcome in my home. And I still got to wear my flannel pajamas.