I'm sitting here in my home office—so this is what it's like to not be at work!—with my cornbread for my savory bread pudding in the oven and my potato rolls on the rise and the kids watching the parade on TV, preparing to make Thanksgiving dinner for the three of us later this afternoon.
This year is very strange. In all the years before I opened the restaurant, our house was Thanksgiving central. We'd invite friends, family, and anybody we knew that didn't have anyone to celebrate with. The house would be full and the feast would be enormous.
Since I bought the restaurant, my aunt has taken up the challenge and we've gone to her house to celebrate. This year, circumstances have conspired against us and it's just me and my two daughters along with the faithful floor-cleaning beagle. The house is oddly quiet.
While our celebration is very small this year, we are together and celebrating. Which brings me to the point of this entire post. I spoke to another chef last evening about his book for today and in the course of that conversation, he said that he had reservations for nine singletons. Nine people dining by themselves on Thanksgiving. How pitiful! If I knew who they were, I'd invite them over to eat with us, like the old days.
Do me a favor. Next year, invite someone who has nobody else to your house for Thanksgiving.
Mmmm, I smell cornbread smells wafting up the stairs. Time to go check....