Mr. Thanksgiving Gets Leprosy

I don’t know how it happened. He seemed fine last year. I’ve had him for a few years, but last year was the first I remembered him and actually put some salt in him in time for Thanksgiving dinner. This year, though, I remembered in plenty of time to be using him for a whole month. But I washed him yesterday, and as he dried, well…his face fell off. I feel kind of bad about throwing him away, but I don’t think I can use a faceless Mr. Thanksgiving saltshaker. A little too creepy.

The reason I brought out the holiday-themed salt and pepper shakers was I thought I might use them as a kitschy little accent for the dinner party I had with my “pod” last night. (I ended up keeping the shakers off the table, in case the leprosy was contagious and the others started shedding their faces.)

The pod is a group of church small group leaders who meet with me about once a month. I call them my Pod People. We talk about their groups, and they share all the brilliant ideas they have, and I talk about the ridiculously ambitious goals I have for them. Last night was the first night we incorporated food, and it was as we thought it would be—everything is better when there’s eating involved.

Oh, so the eating part: for appetizers, we had figs stuffed with blue cheese and drizzled with olive oil and balsamic vinegar. (The easiest appetizer in the world, and one I always resort to. Split the figs from top to bottom, leaving the bottoms intact to hold them together. Cram in a wedge of blue cheese, do the drizzling, pop them in the oven until they’re bubbly and fantastic, and voila!) Thai-style shrimp with coconut milk and tomatoes over rice, and a salad on the side. We drank Italian sodas out of champagne flutes and followed it all with a chocolate trifle. My kind of dinner party: things that look and sound fancy but are ridiculously, fall-off-a-log easy to make.

I spent the afternoon cleaning the house and prepping the food (chopping the veggies, making the dessert, de-tailing two pounds of shrimp). At one point, I had the shrimp in a bowl of water, thawing, and I was chopping tomatoes and onions and garlic and ginger off to the side. Oliver thought it would be a fine idea to jump onto the counter, but there was some water where he jumped and he slipped—and before finding his footing, he knocked into the bowl of shrimp. Imagine it: I have a sink full of soapy water to the left of the bowl. I have vegetables to the right. Oliver jumps between the sink and the shrimp and clips the bowl, and I gasp and lunge—in slow motion, of course—for the bowl, catching it in time to keep about half the shrimp in the bowl. The other half flew through the air, onto the floor and into the sink of soapy water.

I quickly forgot how pitiful Oliver looked in his cone, how I promised never to be mad at him again, no matter what he did. There was shrimp and shrimp-water all over my kitchen. There were shrimp in my dishwater!

I scooped up the shrimp off the floor (gross) and fished them out of the dishwater (even grosser) and then set about to rinsing the heck out of those little guys. I had a bottle of veggie cleaner on the sink that I had just used on the tomatoes. So, I thought, it couldn’t hurt, and I squirted some on the shrimp as I continued to rinse, rinse, rinse.

After I got the mess cleaned up, I had to go apologize to Oliver for some of the things I said during the whole ordeal. Other than that, the dinner went off without a hitch.

Mr. Thanksgiving, on the other hand…

Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...
This entry was posted in Food, Life and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Post a comment or leave a trackback: Trackback URL.