29 november 1999

Well, I'm back from my Thanksgiving holiday -- three days in central Maine, in the bosom of my beloved's family. I'd faced this trip with a mixture of anticipation and trepidation (take with a snack or small meal if stomach upset occurs), because Jon's dad was none too pleased about my involvement in Jon's life a few months ago.

I needn't have worried. This time, when he saw me, he hugged me and called me "sweetheart" -- it purely made my weekend.

I met Jon at my folks' house Thursday morning, after he got off work. (The only thing worse than 1st shift/3rd shift is 1st shift/2nd shift, kids -- they both suck rocks.) I drove as far as Kennebunk, then my sciatica screamed too loud and Jon took over. We got to his aunt's house at 1:30-ish, and we weren't late, which is cool.

Dinner at that house was one of the strangest experiences of recent memory. Definitely not weird, as I define weird as otherworldy or uncanny, or at least amusing. This experience was none of the above -- it was just strange.

To begin with, I was introduced all around. This in itself was not strange. But when I was introduced to my host, Jon's uncle (and let me here add that he married into the family), the first thing he did was hand me a sword, "in case [you] need[ed] it." For what, fending off attacks by savage PETA members?

So we schmoozed, and Jon touched base with the various segments of his mom's side of the family, and eventually dinner was brought out. (Allow me to add that the appetizers were quite standard, though I would have peeled the carrots.)

The turkey was scrumptious. I cannot state that enough. The sweet potatoes were, well, sweet; the green bean casserole looked, as it always does, like green beans covered with mucus and French's Fried Onion Pieces. As usual, I did not partake of the green bean casserole.

There were no peas. There was no corn. I can live without veggies at Thanksgiving (though I try to give the illusion that I eat a balanced diet). But There Must Be Potatoes. Not scalloped potatoes; I don't like those. There must be Mashed Potatoes.

There were potatoes. At first I thought Jon's uncle had made them the way Jon does: with the skins on. I took two spoonsful, since there was nothing to grace my plate save white meat and two lonely bits of sweet potatoes (since I don't like them all that much). I was all excited. Thanksgiving was saved! There were Mashed Potatoes! Then I tasted them.

The little dark bits weren't skins at all, they were some sort of seed. When asked what was in the potatoes, the answer given by the cook (the same man who handed me the sword), he said "Oh, starch..." and a bunch of other non-answers I couldn't hear. I piped up and asked, "What's in the potatoes that's not potato?" The answer that filtered back was something about seeds, and someone said caraway. I thought it was dill. Whatever it was, it was inedible, and I'll eat the driest, most elderly fries, I love potatoes so much.

So I ate the yummy turkey, and the two slices of sweet potato, and sat there feeling like an ungrateful schlub because I'd turned up my nose at everything else. Later investigation of the kitchen revealed cumin seeds in a large plastic container. In the words of Jon's cousin, "he started gourmetin' on the potatoes and forgot to stop."

I'm not trying to be snotty about this, really I'm not. Jon apologized for it later, though there was no need, and we went to his friend's house, where we were invited to join them for a second Thanksgiving dinner. The turkey wasn't as good, but there were potatoes. Seedless, run-of-the-mill, mashed potatoes. Yummy.