I'm in Intro. to Fiction right now, but that is beside the point.
Last night I hosted a Thanksgiving dinner in my apartment. The hours leading up to our feast had me nervous. I was terrified the only guests would be my two roommates. There weren't too many guests to begin with, but downsizing from eight to three is sad. Potato skins dropped from the quiet panic of my hands into a large pile in the sink, which I later unclogged so that the water build up could drain. a half hour later I retrieved my friend from the Christmas coated lobby, and she watched as I nervously mashed the potatoes. That's three people, plus myself, at the table. That's doable. She leaves with one of my roommates, my wineglass filled with apple juice in his hand, to find out if our friends from upstairs are coming. When they knocked a dapper young man answered and said the stuffing was in the oven. Thank the Lord. I left to Fresh Grocer to pick up the small chicken for the "turkey" and more pasta. Green beans, corn, mashed potatoes and chicken waiting in the microwave, table set, pictures, where is everybody?, "Don't wear that," more pictures, and it's time to eat. The transition from paranoia to gusta is something that happens every time I host. I will let the pictures explain the rest of the evening.
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| But where will we eat? |
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| Leaf art |
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| The inside of the pie |
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| The pie, uncooked |
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| Nametag |
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| Nametag |
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| Nametag |
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| The table setting and lovely fireplace |
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| The food |
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| The "turkey" |
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| The table |
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| Here we are! |
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| Pie time |
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