An illustrated guide to my Thanksgiving weekend

After spending the actual holiday with Bobby's family, a frenzy of activity began. Jeremy, my honorary brother, flew in on a whim from western New York. Following the girls-only dinner party I attended at Kelly's house on Friday night, Bobby and Jeremy joined us at the diveiest of dive bars way out in St. Johns. There, Morgan and I did our trademark Kelly Clarkson duet, I apparently "belted" a selection from Rent, and Jeremy knocked Elvis Costello's "Veronica" out of the park. I also learned I am a terrible dance partner. These photos make it look like a much classier joint than it actually is.

Karaoke and Dancing on Friday











Dinner, Rock Band, and Dancing on Saturday

Saturday afternoon, I fetched Jeremy from Becka's house, and we went to Meat Cheese Bread. Here he is looking quizzical.



The boys played some Rock Band



Jonathan and Breylan stopped by to pre-party on our way to dinner on our way to a certain monthly dance party we all frequent. Turns out my sweater was much too hot for Branx. Ah well. Here's a shot of me and Jonathan in pre-party stage.



Breakfast, Dinner Parties, and Birthday Celebrations on Sunday

Despite spending the previous night dancing into the wee hours, I was up by 8:00 Sunday morning dragging Bobby and Jeremy out of bed to go to breakfast. I called Conor, and he, Jonathan, Breylan, and Adam joined us. They were all at Montage around 3:00am, so none of us were quite as lively as we normally would be. Pancakes and scrambles and caffeinated beverages (lots of them) fixed us right up.

Post-brekky, Jeremy and I started formulating plans for a dinner party. He decided to make Japanese curry, as well as olive tapanade appetizer thingies. I called Tara and Ross (whose birthday it was), and a fine evening took shape. When the Santa Cruz Crew assembles, we immediately revert to our younger selves. We may dress better and have real furniture, and Ross may be about to be somebody's parent, but we remain fundamentally the same.





We celebrated Ross' birthday, ate awesome food, and laughed until our bodies ached. There's really nothing better than spending a weekend with all these people.

My Tree > Your Tree

It's the day after Thanksgiving, which means I have spent the entire morning decorating my house for Christmas! Way back in the fall of 2007, I scoured the Portland area for the vintage aluminum tree of my dreams. I've been gleefully putting it together every year since. Observe:



Also noteworthy is my mantle. I know one of the stockings doesn't match the rest of the decor. That's because Bobby insisted on having a "manly" color for his stocking or no stocking at all. The cats, being my cats, asked for sequins.



The front door has a matching aluminum wreath, which I picked up at Target a year or two ago. I also have some blue and white lights, but they aren't up yet.



Also, for good measure, here is a photo of Enid posing like an A-list actress trying to look svelte on the red carpet.



Finally, I've been poking around the internet for items I would buy myself for Christmas if that weren't a weird thing to do. For example, this item, which makes me think "yo dawg, I heard you like tacky Christmas trees, so we put a tacky Christmas tree ON YOUR CHRISTMAS TREE!" (Personal to mom - that's internet humor)

On that note, it's nearly 3:00 and I haven't bothered with a shower yet. Holiday laziness FTW! Guess I should do something about that if I'm planning on having a girls' night with my dear former coworkers.

Sometimes I pretend to be a legit food or humor blogger

As my American readers know, tomorrow is Thanksgiving - a holiday revered by gluttons and intriguing to Swedish houseguests (see last year's post). Being raised by a mother who, by her own admission, is more of a sustenance cook than a chef, I'm not terribly useful in the kitchen. Whatever, I'm too smart and talented to be anybody's housewife. Usually when faced with the task of feeding myself, I throw a veggie burger in the toaster oven and then become distracted by the internet until my dinner catches fire. Once that happens, I either dump a bunch of Secret Aardvark Sauce on it or call in an order to the Thai restaurant.

This brings us back to the impending holiday. I've been spending Thanksgiving either on my own via orphan Thanksgiving extravaganza (my college years) or with Bobby's family (2006-present) for the last decade. My parents live too far away to drive, and I'll be danged if I'm going anywhere near an airport on the busiest travel weekend of the year. Christmas is much more fluid, so that's when they get to see me.

The first time I was due to spend Thanksgiving with my then-future, now-current in-laws, I asked what I could bring. Cranberry sauce is one of my preferred contributions, so I offered to make that. Bobby told me they usually just eat the canned stuff, and I was like:



Since then, I have been officially in charge of cranberry sauce at the Lilly Family Thanksgiving Extravaganza. Here is a photo tutorial for making easy-peasy cranberry sauce.

Step One: assemble your ingredients*



One package fresh cranberries (I always forget and buy two. If you're like me, double the rest of the ingredients too)
One-and-a-half (1 1/2) cups of sugar
3/4 cup of orange juice
Two-and-a-half (2 1/2) tablespoons of lemon juice
*One two glasses of wine. You've had a rough day.

(Note that my lemon juice expires on 11.26.2011. Under the wire!)

Step Two
Rinse your cranberries (they do come from a bog, and the word bog is gross) and combine all ingredients in a large saucepan. You know, the one you typically use when the regular popcorn bowl is in the dishwasher. It should look approximately like a diabetic coma waiting to happen:



Step Three
Bring your pile of sugar and cranberries to a boil, stirring occasionally so it cooks evenly.



Step Four
It's done when the cranberries start poppin' and the contents of your saucepan look approximately like this:



Step Five
Let it cool, and bring it to the Thanksgiving table like a pro.

A little sidenote about cranberry sauce - anyone who has spent Thanksgiving or Christmas with me knows that though I love the stuff, I must have it in a separate bowl. I am a major food separatist when it comes to sweet and savory things, and if the cranberry sauce touches my mashed potatoes, dinner is over. Separate. Bowl.

In the spirit of the holiday, I remain indescribably thankful for my friends, family, and friends who have become family. Thanks for keeping me sane, y'all; it's a tough job for sure.

Gluttony and celebrations

Today is Bobby's birthday. We had the big party for him at Dig a Pony on Saturday:



Clockwise from the left, that's Jeremi, Matt, Ori, Bobby, Patrick, Breylan, Jonathan, Conor, Marissa, and Tara. Me? I'm the photographer.

The bar was pretty dead for quite a while. When Conor and Jonathan disappeared to the other side for a while, it filled up considerably. I had abandoned my purse and other effects at our table, and Chris (who arrived after this photo was taken) and Tara were kind enough to nab my stuff as we were crowded out of the bar. Without warning, the place became overrun with a disagreeable crowd, so most of us marched up the street to the much quieter Morrison Hotel. Breylan didn't want to go home, so he crashed at our place and went to Genie's with us in the morning. (As a sidenote, I am finally the Duchess of Genie's on Yelp. Not sure if this is a point of pride or evidence of a breakfast rut, but I'll take it).

Today, Bobby's actual birthday, involved taking his car to the shop at 7:30 in the morning, then going to school and doing other daily routine stuff. He says it was quite a lovely day anyway, though. We had dinner at Dots, followed by (at my insistence) frozen yogurt at Swirl. Gluttony is the theme of the forthcoming holiday anyway, so why not start early?

In any case, a very happy birthday to Bobby on this rainy November evening.

Winter ennui

Oh the crushing boredom of winter: shuffle from the house to the car/bus/destination in an ugly puffy coat. Struggle for the motivation to do anything beyond curling up under a blanket watching hours of television. Run out of Melophobe shows for the year because nobody tours during the holidays. Watch the sun setting defeatedly at 4 PM. Glare out the window at the unrelenting rain. Grit your teeth against the cold morning. Switch to red wine because it's too cold for white and the sugars interfere with your sleeping patterns. Cough. Sniffle. Apply lotion to the ever-cracking skin on your hands. Listen exclusively to Elliott Smith, Leonard Cohen, Mary Lou Lord, and the Magnetic Fields. Cross your fingers for the speedy demise of the season and the welcome arrival of spring.

I could never live anywhere but Portland. I've traveled the world and found no city that comes close to here. But the winters, the WINTERS. The drop-off of activity and the slickness of the sidewalks. The pervasive malaise that creeps into my veins. The desperate longing for sunshine and sleeveless dresses. The feeling of disconnectedness that I can. not. shake.

The oppressive Northwest winters keep me bound to the desert at least once per year. Though moving back to my hometown would represent abject failure to me, I can't go a single December without escaping there for a few days. It's a bleak, expansive wasteland with a knack for draining the life and ambition from all who inhabit it. Still, I can't stay away for long. Once the endless winter nights set in, the experiences of my childhood begin swirling in my head and I long for the dry desert air. One week a year, I want my unturkey sandwich, accompanied by gallons of sun-ripened iced tea, waiting in the fridge when I pull into the driveway. I want the mineral-rich water that instantly revitalizes my hair and skin as soon as it hits me. I want the chance to splash in a swimming pool all by myself. I want the dead quiet, the lizards sunning themselves on the wall, the intensely flavorful Mexican food, the 2AM trips to Del Taco, the lack of concerned looks when I order the hottest salsa on the menu. I want wide, familiar roads that stretch beyond the horizon. I want visits with old friends who've known me since childhood. I want three flavors of Cactusberry frozen yogurt teetering precariously over the edge of my dish. Just the idea of breaking up the relentless winter with a week in Palm Springs is enough to carry me through til the sun returns to Portland. Soon, soon, soon.


Photo shamelessly stolen from my mother's Flickr account

Update!

I went out dancing with the usual crew last night. John Cameron Mitchell was DJing at Branx, so obviously I had to go. I'll take any excuse to wear a tiara and outrageous makeup. While we were taking a break outside (inside Branx was very stuffy due to dancing), Mr. Mitchell appeared. He stood about three feet from us, where he was having a cigarette and chatting with friends. I debated whether or not to go say hello, but I figured I'd leave him be. Besides, he might find it offensive that his movie is only my second favorite film of all time. I was content to enjoy the music and the atmosphere, even if I was a seventeenth wheel. Plus, the boys and I went to the Hotcake House at the end of the night. Win/win/win! If you don't know who John Cameron Mitchell is, you should:

A) Be ashamed of yourself
B) Watch this video:



Other than that, I covered a Scattered Trees show last week, which I thoroughly enjoyed. Got one more coming up this week, and that appears to be it for the year. I'm sure more will turn up.

It's unseasonably sunny and warm outside, with no torrential rains in sight. I'm sure that'll change and I'll be clamoring for the holidays so I can hang out in California for a few days, but for now, me and winter are cool. Plus, I've got a four day week this week and plans for Friday brunch in the works. From there, it's a quick descent into 2012.