A Feast Fit for Kings By Alyssa Burzynski I am always very excited about Thanksgiving: the ski season is about to begin, my birthday usually falls during that week, and I get an extra long weekend. This year was different; it was going to be my first Thanksgiving not spent with my family, but I was looking forward to it. My roommates and I were planning on spending the holiday skiing in Big Sky, Montana, where they had just gotten new snow. I woke Thanksgiving Day to the sound of safety avalanches; I was startled at first by the muffled explosions, not ever having heard them before. I quickly dressed for skiing and went out to the living room, but to my surprise no one else looked like they were ready to ski. They all still had their pajamas on, sleepy eyed staring at me in confusion. I was promptly informed that, “We never go skiing on Thanksgiving Day. First we watch the parade and then we cook.” My heart sunk as I remembered that there was a need for avalanche control today, but what could I really do about it. I was trapped. Their eyes reverted back to the television, and I slumped down in a large leather armchair. Finally, after seeing SpongeBob, Mickey, Snoopy and Woodstock, I wiped the grim expression off my face. The hot cider drinking commenced and the balloons were followed by a performance from the Rockets; I couldn’t help but start to enjoy myself. As the parade came to a close, the turkey was taken out to begin defrosting. We started chopping red and yellow onions, tossing them in a large soup pot with olive oil and garlic. The smell of simmering onions began to fill the cabin replacing the onion tears that were welling up in the corners of my eyes. French onion soup is one of my favorites, but only when its made right with vegetable stock instead of beef. We turned the heat down and started to focus our attention on other foods. Someone started to prepare the turkey, and I hastily began to peel potatoes. No way was I, the vegetarian, going to get stuck helping with that cold, pasty, uncooked turkey, that I wasn’t even going to eat. I looked up from my potato peeling to see the girl, who had promptly corrected my skiing confusion, stick her hand up the turkey’s butt end and pull out a glob of dark red organs. I grimaced at the sight and went back to my lifeless heap of brown potatoes. After bringing two pots of water to boil, we added the peeled and diced potatoes to the large pot and cranberries to the small one; no Thanksgiving is complete without homemade cranberry sauce. No cylindrical shaped maroon sauce here, with the little rings imprinted from the can that it was packaged in. It was about the good stuff, and not much good comes from canned food. The heat was brought down to a simmer, and sugar was quickly added, creating pink frothy foam.
From the corner of my eye I saw two cans of beef stock being poured in with the simmering onions. For a second my mouth hung open, I thought I had told them I was a vegetarian, they were my roommates shouldn’t they know. It’s fine, it’s just one thing, I won’t even miss it. Averting my attention, I gave the cranberry sauce a stir. The potatoes had been at a rumbling boil from about twenty-‐five minutes and a fork easily pierced their naked flesh. We drained the pot, and put it back on the burner, adding milk, butter, and minced garlic. The mashed mixture was emptied into a baking dish and put aside till the turkey was finished roasting. Giving the soon to be gelatinous cranberries a stir of approval, I placed them in the fridge in hopes that the sugars would cool quickly. With about two hours left on the rosemary and garlic stuffed turkey, the girl from before started to read the back of the Pepperidge Farm stuffing bag. The instructions called for two cups of chicken stock, but I suggested vegetable stock, since this was the only premade stuffing that did not contain ground chicken powder. “But the directions say chicken stock, we have to use chicken stock,” the girl kept repeating herself and being the only vegetarian I didn’t say another word. From the leather armchair that I had retreated to, the smell of sizzling meat drifted through the air. I lifted my head peering into the kitchen, curious of what other dishes I would have to avoid. Pancetta was being fried up for the Brussels sprouts; of course we can’t have a vegetable dish without meat, how silly of me. A few slices of dripping pancetta were removed from the pan before the Brussels sprouts were added. I watch intently to see what other dish were being contaminated. In the home stretch, with fifteen minutes till the turkey had to be removed, six perfectly shaped Pillsbury biscuits entered the scorching oven. The remaining slices of pancetta were being chopped and suddenly sprinkled on top of the mashed potatoes; one of the only untainted foods was being ruined. The table was set, and now people were bringing dishes and serving spoons. First came the beef stock French onion soup, then the roasted Brussels sprouts and pancetta, followed by the non-‐ground chicken powder stuffing that was now filled with chicken broth. The mashed potatoes were placed next to the real cranberry sauce and the basket of hot Pillsbury biscuits that gave off an artificial smell. And at last the turkey arrived, sitting center stage in between the soup and the stuffing. It was a meal fit for a king. However, I’m a vegetarian and there were two options: cranberry sauce or a Pillsbury biscuit. As I looked down at my plate all I could think was, My first Thanksgiving away from home, and I’m eating a fucking biscuit and cranberry sauce.