plop pie and other magic moments

Never before had I eaten mango chicken, pork knuckles and kangaroo for Thanksgiving, but this was a holiday of many firsts. Going to four consecutive Thanksgivings is bound to bring out at least a few.

I've been away from family on Thanksgiving before (unlike my friend, whose grief-ridden family set out not only her plate, but also her picture with it. "Anyone walking in would have thought I'd died," she said), and last year was actually particularly tragic: I'd had two dinners to attend, but had to bail on both of them, having gotten sick on the Wednesday. This year I had my work cut out for me to make up for them, but am pleased to announce I most definitely succeeded.

My first Thanksgiving dinner was with many of the Christian surfers at Brennan and Kenton's. Brennan, an American from Kalamazoo, had the idea to stick with the theme of thanks, but skip the turkey. He instead requested everyone bring a food they were thankful for, in keeping with the true meaning of the celebration. Seeing as he's also a male philosophy student, I'm guessing the appeal of not cooking an entire turkey also played a part. Minor, of course.

I do give him credit for sticking the holiday on its proper day (the fourth Thursday of November), though. We all arrived after work with our dishes and cushions. Their flat is what I think real estate agents would describe as "intimate" or "cozy," and so they had very kindly gone to the trouble of removing absolutely everything from their living room and bringing in two standard church tables. (Anyone who's been around church awhile will recognize the variety immediately. Anyone who hasn't, well, I can only recommend that you visit. It's amazing what you can learn, and not just about tables.) Our seating arrangement was on said cushions on the floor around the tables, rather Last Supper-style, come to think of it.

Before we began, though, we all gathered and went around to explain the food we'd brought. Then we filed through, buffet-style, and piled our plates. When we'd finished the main courses, Brennan halted the proceedings to give us a run-down of what precisely Thanksgiving was, as we had a very international crowd (American, Canadian, Australian, Kiwi, Italian and Moldovan spring to mind) and not many actually knew the history. After a question-and-answer session, we proceeded to the desserts, which few of us actually had much room to stomach. I'd brought s'mores along, and proceeded to roast several Jet-Puffed marshmallows over their open gas stove. (That was, in case you didn't catch it, also another Thanksgiving first.)

After desserts finally settled, 10 of the 16 guests shuffled slowly out the door and presumably made it safely to their respective cars. The last six of us stayed to tidy up a little bit, but mostly to head down to (this is so exciting!) the beach! The guys live right near Dee Why beach (this was the surfer Thanksgiving, remember) and how remiss would have been not to take advantage of such a strategic situation. We strolled down and sat watching the waves, talking and nuzzling up for backrubs.

Then we walked down actually to the water and really could have gone swimming if we'd thought to bring our gear (bathing suit for a Thanksgiving feast; can't imagine how I forgot!), but we hadn't, so we chatted some more and ran spinning circles through the shallow waves before heading off.

And there was "turkey," and there was pumpkin pie, the first Thanksgiving.

The next day I went in to work about noon, taught for three very long hours, and finally ended up at my friend Pamela's for my second Thanksgiving dinner. Unlike Brennan, Pamela loves cooking and had been in the kitchen all day. In fact, I'd gotten periodic updates throughout the afternoon, mostly revolving around the fact that the butcher had forgotten -- forgotten -- to order the Thanksgiving Day turkey!!! "What would you like on your pizza?" she texted about 3 pm. "TURKEY!" I shot back.

Thankfully by the time I arrived her quick-thinking husband Ray had solved the dilemma by purchasing various turkey components (is that a polite way to put it?) from a grocery store. Crisis averted.

This dinner featured a range of guests, though all except Pamela and I were Australian. Various friend and relatives made up the (normal dining room) table, and I was delighted to have (nearly) made it out of the kids' table and into the grown-ups'. We all went around and shared what we were thankful for, then feasted away through some of the raciest Thanksgiving talk I'd ever encountered.

After dessert with coffee (as opposed to dessert and then coffee; we were being American on this rare occasion), numbers again dwindled and we moved to the living room for a round of 500 so rousing our host actually fell asleep on the floor next to us. Although I've always played cards on Thanksgiving, the deviation from canasta and pinochle made 500 another first. A more memorable first, though, was the fact that I actually managed to lose -- an odd sensation, and one I don't plan to repeat.

And there was turkey, and there was pumpkin pie, the second Thanksgiving.

Before my next meal, I took a jaunt to the grocery store via the Kirribilli and Fair Trade markets. I needed to stock up on a few supplies for the upcoming feasts, but unfortunately failed to take the weight of the objects (sixteen apples, for instance) and the heat into consideration. It made for a very warm, long hike back from the bus stop, followed by a very warm, long afternoon in the kitchen.

Now, those of you who know me know that I do not cook. I can cook, but it requires patience and a plethora of time that could be spent doing much more enjoyable things, like writing about how much I don't like to cook, which is what I spent most of my time coring apples thinking about. In any event, for some bizarre reason I had volunteered to make applesauce for my third Thanksgiving dinner. I'd called Mom from the markets to determine precisely how many apples I needed, and if there was really anything else in it besides cinnamon and water. (Sugar, she reminded me. How could I -- Kimberly! -- possibly have forgotten sugar?!) At first she thought ten apples would do, but then said fifteen would be safer. I decided to be on the safe side and go with sixteen.

And that was how I spent all (okay, an hour and a half's worth) of Saturday afternoon peeling, coring, slicing and cutting apples in a kitchen without a garbage disposal. The applesauce turned out beautifully, if slightly on the sugary side, and I keeled over and took a 15 minute ... and another 15 minute ... and one last 15 minute nap. Cooking really takes it out of me.

Finally having sworn not to turn the stove on again for the rest of the year, I gathered my saucepan of applesauce, serving spoon, cranberry sauce (not, thank goodness, homemade), camera, flowers, rolls (for the fourth feast), pajamas (enough with this late night public transportation home after Thanksgiving business!), clothes for the next day and toiletries bag and forged my way onto Sydney's public transportation system.

And over the river and into Burwood I went, through absolutely nothing like white and drifty snow. Arriving at the train station I called Melissa for my final instructions on foot. "I see a 400," I panted, "can I take it?"

I could, and minutes later I plopped my load down in her bustling, steaming kitchen. Evidently she'd been cooking even more than I had.

She had up a white board checklist with everything, from the turkey and stuffing to broccoli rice casserole and homemade dinner rolls to the pecan pie and brownies, though she'd even been so organized as to do all the desserts the night before.

I set the table for nine (four Americans, five Aussies, one vegan), and we all brought out dish after dish of steaming delicacies until the table could fit no more, at which point we rearranged the shapes and sizes of some dishes (that fruit would really make a fantastic dessert, now, wouldn't it?). All was ready, save for two lost guests. We forged ahead without them, which was good, considering that they didn't manage to find themselves before we'd finished the entirety of main and side dishes.

We let them finish while we relaxed in the post-turkey lull, then busted out the brownies (who really likes pie better than chocolate? honestly.). We did have pies, too: apple, pecan and plop. The first two are fairly self-explanatory, the third was so named because, according to Melissa's midwestern family, it looks rather along the lines of, well, plop. She insisted it had failed miserably (you had to eat it more with a spoon than a fork), but it tasted delicious. Later I found out why: it's all sugar. Shouldn't have been surprising, really.

After dinner our numbers shifted somewhat, and two extremely kind souls cleaned up the entire kitchen while the rest of us played "Things in a Box" for hours on end. Perhaps you have not played this game before. It is amazing. One person flips over a card -- "Things You Shouldn't Catch on Videotape," for example -- and everyone writes an answer and gives it to the, for lack of a better word, flipper. That person reads them in random order and then you go around the table and guess who wrote what (you get a point if you're right) until all the answers are correctly assigned to their writers. Did I mention it's amazing? I mean, what's not to love about a game that gives you "Things That Hang," "Things You Shouldn't Put in the Classified Ads" and "Things You Shouldn't Say to the First Lady" ("you're black!").

And there was turkey, and there was pumpkin pie, the third Thanksgiving.

My final Thanksgiving dinner of the year was at my friend Kimberly's place. Her parents were visiting from America, and she'd invited an array of co-workers, former students, former neighbors and friends to join in. We came about 2 (the only afternoon Thanksgiving of the year), and it was probably the sanest of dinners.

It began with hors d'oeuvres and wine while we mingled in the chic living room, making connections (you used to live in Mason? I'm from West Chester! Chagrin Falls! My aunt's from around there!) until it was time to feast. Like the previous feasts, we went around and shared what we were thankful for, then prayed holding hands, family-style. Most of my Thanksgivings were among Christians, and perhaps I might just take this moment to mention how very thankful I am for my "family" away from family -- my church family, and the other Christians in my life, are so amazing and loving, and, though they could never take the place of my family, certainly make being away from them at Thanksgiving much less traumatic. So thank you to them, and, of course, most of all to Jesus, for giving us the biggest reason to be thankful of all.

And there was turkey, and there was pumpkin pie, the fourth Thanksgiving.

And then I went to church and rested, at least until next year.