The Dirt Field

Back in 2006, when I was first living a newly single life in my friend Jeff’s townhouse, I cooked an entire Thanksgiving dinner for my friends and family. I had never even made one Thanksgiving dish before, but armed with a series of recipes from my culinarily-gifted friend Mary, I spent an entire day cooking, roasting, stuffing, stirring, and basting. I even went so far as to make my own table centerpieces using stalks from a plant I hacked apart behind the neighborhood entrance sign. It was very Martha Stewart (if she was into trespassing instead of insider trading).

The dinner was a success, so several weeks ago I suggested to the Log Posse that we have a Thanksgiving dinner where Bobby and I would host and prepare a number of the dishes and the rest of the Posse would provide the rest.

When Bobby left, thereby leaving me with nobody to mop the floors prior to the party or foot the bill for the alcohol, it seemed all was lost and the Posse Thanksgiving was not going to happen. I rallied last week, however, and decided that the show must go on and that such a big undertaking would probably be a good distraction. Not to mention that getting the Posse together can improve just about anybody’s mood (except for people trapped near us in a restaurant, perhaps).

I waited until last night at 10:30pm to do the grocery shopping for today’s dinner, because that’s what hot, single people do on Friday nights – we go to the grocery store and debate over which turkey to buy. The old woman behind me in the checkout line was buying two 40-ounce Hurricanes, two Duraflame logs, and an ornate Christmas doll, and it crossed my mind that maybe I would be better off going home to her house instead of my own.

The best part about throwing a dinner party for close friends following a particularly devastating breakup is that everybody acts like everything is just delightful and delicious. I could probably set the turkey on fire, forget to cook the sweet potatoes before serving them, and accidentally add dog kibble to the stuffing, and people will still likely gush and complement for fear of making me burst into tears or shutting myself in the closet.