13 Tips for a Perfect Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving isn't until tomorrow, but I wanted to give you a few tips I have learned in more than 50 Thanksgivings.  I want to stress that I did not make all of these mistakes myself. Really. I didn't. 

I offer the following, in no particular order:

If you think that giant pot of potatoes might boil over, it will. Use two pots.

Don't shove that mountain of potato peels down the disposal unless you have a plumber on your guest list. (Extra bonus tip: don't buy the bargain potato peeler.)

Don't forget to remove the squishy bag of giblets from the turkey.  Check both cavities. Yes, there are two. And don't forget to roast the turkey neck and share it privately in the kitchen with the person who helped the most.

Yes, cheesecake is too a traditional Thanksgiving dessert.

Don't forget to pre-order the world's best pecan pie from the Culinary Institute unless you are willing to phone them at 6:59 a.m. Wednesday and beg for the privilege of overpaying for the very last pie that hadn't been reserved. (Thanks for the tip, Alexa!)

Should you decide to downsize and sell all your stuff, remember to save at least one tablecloth, just in case. And, downsized or not, don't use any tablecloth whose appearance won't be improved by splotches of cranberry sauce, gravy, red wine and chocolate (aka "The Breakfast of Champions).

Using paper napkins is not a moral failing.

Ice. You're going to need more ice.

You probably don't have too much wine.

Before sitting down, you may want to check the microwave and refrigerator to see what you are about to forget to serve.

If you want to remain thankful for more than 24 hours, do all the dishes before you  go to bed. Yes, that means the pots, too.

If boys old enough to know better should squirt whipped cream directly from the can into their mouths, develop a sudden case of hysterical blindness and remember how cute they were when they were babies.

And somewhere between forkfuls, pause for a minute, look around the table to remember who is not there this year and promise yourself to appreciate those who are.

More Thanksgiving ideas:

One Book You Absolutely Must Have

Turkeys Shopping for Turkeys

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Jean-Paul Sartre Was Wrong

Hell is not other people. Hell is the International Transit Desk at Indira Gandhi International Airport in New Delhi, India. Nearly a month has passed since my first encounter with the charming (not), helpful (certainly not) and efficient (hahaha) people staffing the International Transit Desk, and I am still in awe of my mind-boggling experience there. It was not an isolated incident, either; two weeks later I was obliged to go there again--same story.



I won't bore you with the details of my 30-some hour trips to and from Nepal; after all, I chose to go halfway around the world to see the Himalayas (more on that later). But I offer this as a cautionary tale.

Briefly: Americans need a visa to actually enter India. People who are merely changing planes in India en route to another country (say, for example, Nepal) need not get one. Instead, they simply go to the Transit Desk where their baggage is checked through to their outgoing flight, and pick up their boarding passes. Simplicity itself, right?

Um. No. Fresh from a 16-hour flight from Chicago, we walked briskly through the airport and found the International Transit Desk with no problem at all. As we had only carry-on luggage, all we needed to do was pick up our boarding passes for our flight to Kathmandu, and be on our way. 

Um. No. There was no line at any of the eight stations, so I picked one and approached, itinerary in hand, and told the woman behind the desk what I needed. She looked at me coolly and said, "Yes. Go sit down."  This didn't seem to be a good answer, so I thought perhaps I hadn't been clear (after all, it had been a long flight). I politely restated my request. She exhaled sharply, stared coolly and said, "Yes. Sit down. I will call you."  To which I smiled and replied, "Oh, I see, thank you, but I didn't give you my name yet."  "Yes," she said. "Go sit down."

You probably think I am making this up, but I am not. If I were making it up, I would have made up something significantly more plausible.  Anyway, after about thirty minutes, I went back to the desk, to another station, and asked for our boarding passes to be issued. The man listened passively until I finished, and then said, "Didn't you go to the other line first?" I nodded and he replied, "Then you must go back to her." Sheepishly (though now a little frustrated), I returned to the first line, where I was told (of course) to go sit down.

Sitting there, trying to remember the plot of Waiting for Godot, I began to fear that the 18-hour layover before our onward flight might not be enough. More than two hours later, (and for no apparent reason) they deigned to give us boarding passes. No explanation for the delay, and most certainly no apology. Counting ourselves lucky to escape, we got the hell out of there.

Two weeks later, on our return, the story was much the same. Oh, except for the fact that they originally wouldn't let us even enter the airport because our destination was Chicago, and due to Hurricane Sandy, they said, "America is closed." Um. No.

Can't wait to go back.

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Sunday Haiku XXX

Ahh, mid-September--

When apples blush, green leaves rust

And Pirates collapse

More Haiku

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Sunday Haiku XXIX

The only lion 

Worth fearing is the one who's

Just outside your tent

More Haiku

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Sunday Haiku XXVIII

Lives, like cool streams flow,

Just narrow canyons between

Heaving lakes of fire

More Haiku

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On and Off the Wagon

As soon as I press "Publish" on this post, I am going to head next door to the bar at Sustenio, where I will not have one of these delicious cocktails garnished with a fresh jalapeno.



I won't be having one of these wonderful, refreshing stirred-not-shaken martinis, either.

Nor wine, red or white, nor a Stella Artois (favorite beer in all of Argentina), nor even a crisp prosecco to cap off this 100 degree Texas afternoon.

No, I'll be ordering a tall club soda. Again. Let me explain: for no good reason that I can think of, I decided that I would not drink any alcohol for the entire month of August. Then I immediately made the mistake of telling people about my little experiment. Naturally, it was only hours before I had been invited to a couple of happy hours, a wine dinner and a reception. Rats.

Still, a commitment's a commitment--even if it's only to myself--so each time I went out this month, I ordered a club soda with lime. One thing's for damn certain: I won't get scurvy.

Sometime during the first couple of days of the experiment, obviously drunk on Schweppe's, I expansively vowed that I would donate what I didn't spend on drinks to the San Antonio Food Bank. 

Of course I lost track of the number of club sodas and iced teas I had in lieu of icy martinis and bubbly glasses of champagne, but I figure $100 is a good, round number. So, first thing tomorrow, I will put a check in the mail.

Second thing will be a Bloody Mary.

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I've Got a Secret

I obviously have too much time on my hands, because the other day I was fooling around on-line completing a kind of odd questionnaire. 

One of the questions was, "How long would you last under torture before you would tell everything you know?" They say you never know how tough you are until you are put to the test. I disagree with "They." I know without a doubt that I wouldn't last two minutes. In fact, I wouldn't even try. 

Just thinking about bamboo under my fingernails, or strategically placed electrodes makes me shudder. Heck, I'd probably surrender after the first kick with a steel-toed boot. Or an unkind word.

I like to think I might tough it out for quite a while in prison before giving up--even in solitary confinement, because, hey--I actually like being alone. And sitting still is well within my skill set. 

These photos were taken in Ushuaia, Argentina at the Prison Museum. (Not MOMA, but a cool place for a field trip anyway.) The barrel in the middle is the only heat supply. In Tierra del Fuego. 

Brrrrr.

I'd say the bathrooms could use some sprucing up.

Interrogation Room

I've never been much of a gossip, and now that I'm 50+, I have a tendency to forget most of what people tell me anyway. So feel free to tell me all your secrets; I won't tell a soul. Promise. Unless there's a dentist's drill involved. 

More about Argentina and Antarctica

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