DroppedIn: Plymouth Rock Landed on Us

I just carried 8 shopping bags containing 450 pesos worth of food and wine home. I can barely lift my wasted arms to type. On our kitchen counter there is a cornucopia of food from the autumn harvest of Wal Mart: one fourth of a turkey, 2 cans of Campbell's salsa de pavo (turkey gravy), a bushel of vegetables, a box of wine, a wheel of Ile de France brie and Carr's crackers, a Toblerone, and a family size box of Kraft macaroni and cheese.

Malcolm and I have been speculating about how we should celebrate tomorrow's holiday. Malcolm's mom, who lived abroad for many years, advised that it might feel sort of irrelevant outside the context of the States. And indeed, though we had discussed it a week ago, when a fellow American wished me a Happy Thanksgiving earlier today I was caught off guard. It would be easy to not observe the day's rituals. Malcolm could work, I could flash around town, read, study, shop, and it might not feel unusual. But what if we missed it and lost something later, overlooked a day that acts as a portal to years past and future. We must keep what few traditions we have. But how?

One or two of the big hotels are offering a buffet dinner, but we thought it better to be at home where we could overeat and drink vino tinto and play Gin Rummey and be fat and thankful in the privacy of the Suites del Sol. So, even though there isn't any stuffing, which is essentially a travesty, and there aren't orange colored leaves and visions of Pilgrims dancing in our heads, and we won't get any visuals of a bloated Al Roker sailing past Macy's suffocating children and tourists from Fargo, ND, we're going to celebrate. We're gonna carve that quarter of a turkey dressed with god-knows-what, and give thanks for this sweet strange life, cause that's what it's all about.

Have a beautiful day.

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