So, after a two year hiatus, apparently, I am prepared to finally share some more thoughts on my preferred pastimes. To catch everyone up (I admit that I use the notion of 'everyone' rather liberally), since 2009 I got a part time job, got a full time job, and began getting my proverbial crap together.
But enough with the sentimental stuff. Thanksgiving. (yeah, forget segues, they're over-rated).
I have a dream in my life. One year- and I only am looking for one- I want to do Thanksgiving the way I want to do Thanksgiving. I want to host it. I want to rock-star it. I want it to be talked about for years afterward- perfect food, perfect wine, perfect company...
On the surface, this would mean a complete abandonment of tradition, a hard slap-in-the-face to the traditions my family has [apparently] established. The discussion of what- or who, to be more and less to the point at once- makes tradition, tradition, well that is a discussion for some complete other time, and forum. But deeper than abandoning tradition, it would be a chance for me to express thanks in my own manner. And, make a holiday that is, like it or not, food-centric, a holiday that resonates with me.
Here is Thanksgiving as it is (cue whole tone scales and blurry screen). I go to my sister's house the night before (used to be two or three days out, please refer back to my being gainfully employed to the betterment of society), and the whole family there wakes on Thursday morning, to watch the parade while drinking flavored coffee, lazing around like a proper American family (just kidding, I'm proud of our country, at least until the reports of all the half-wits who got arrested or trampled on Black Friday, a title which will no doubt soon be changed for reasons of political correctness, but even then, the dip in patriotism is fleeting.) The turkey is put in the oven- and let me pause here to point out that I am NOT the one doing the cooking; seriously, my one job this year: bring bourbon for the recipe. The potatoes get cut up. As the parade winds to a close (we mostly zone out after the Snoopy balloon for some reason), the older boys get to work on the summer sausage and cheese, arranging the Ritz crackers (not knocking 'em, they are one fantastic cracker), and the nibbling begins, as we take turns making ourselves presentable while others keep watch so as to not burn the house down (see: the great green bean casserole incident of 2010) as noon creeps up.
Invariably, I am recruited to cook potatoes, then mash them, this being closely related to the fact that I am clearly the most vociferous in my love for the things. I back this up. My opinions are asked, and I act as if I really do have all the answers. My ego is generously coddled. The parents and in-laws will show up and bring their dishes. Honeybaked Ham, broccoli corn bake, sweet potatoes with marshmallows rationed out like depression era goods. Hell, I suppose we're close enough to make the argument this year, so I can't complain- plus, the marshmallow layer gets deeper each year.
Every year, it is the same. It hasn't always been this way, though. As a kid, we would get up and go to my grandparents' house for Thanksgiving. When we were younger, it would include more aunts, uncles, and cousins, though they dropped off as they moved away and had grandkids of their own. This was the idea of Thanksgiving that set the standard. And oddly enough, it was the same thing every year. Every dish today is compared to "how Grandma McAdow made it". And we try. And we fail. The rolls aren't fluffy enough. The broccoli has changed. The yams are the wrong size. On and on, the meal will never live up to the memory. Yet, things are the same each year.
And that would be fine with me. But let's try new things! A twist here and there, a recipe from a friend's Thanksgiving repertoire. Why not? I got harangued for not saving potato water to make the gravy. "That is sacred!!!" I was told. Well, you were late, and I never heard about potato water in gravy before in my life. My sister and I compared gravy making notes and made a decision. This is the best quality time I have with her all year. So what if we ruined it, we ruined it together. I was able to shrug off the attack, and I am happy to report that my assailant neither died from a stroke nor regurgitated an unpalatable gravy. Though, in a Yosemite-Sam-like move intended to keep the (rather full) gravy boat from spilling out the business end of said holder, there was a bit of back-ended spillage. Oh well.
The turkey (maple-bourbon glazed, thanks to my bourbon) is magnificent. It's perfectly cooked, succulent, moist but not drippy. The potatoes- whipped not mashed, thank you- were like air. And tasted like potatoes, to boot. But the sameness of every other thing- shortcomings aside- made me feel lonely, just me and my wine. Which no one else likes. The table's boisson du choisie started it's life as muscadine grapes and ended it's life as syrup [hyperbole], an unromantic yet heroic move for which it was most graciously awarded the title of 'wine'. The one I brought was better suited to something gamier and fell short as well, though it made me feel more at ease. The two of us were out of place together. Given that it was still a pretty darned good wine, I was obligated to drink all of it. Which, let's be honest, over seven hours is not a remarkable feat, except that it's the Bible belt, therefore, had I been at the wedding in Cana, I apparently would nearly have challenged even Our Lord the Christ's beneficence.
So, I fear my visits will only get shorter as I find that I have less time and commonality with my family. But the rub is that what I really want in a Thanksgiving is to share the holiday once- just once- with people who love food, who are my family not by blood, but by dint of shared sacrifices, laughter, tears, fights, arguments, and lessons hard learned. And have a lot on common- like food and our passion for it. I want to have the day with those whose familial ties supersede genetic traits. I want to share my family with food. But still, even more, I want to share food with my family.
I can wish, right?

Margaritas

One of the things that I like to do is make up my own take on different foods, drinks, snacks, etc. Recently I have developed my own sort of a Margarita recipe. It's not all that special, but I have found that it makes for a much smoother sort of beverage, and I have a sordid past when it comes to Tequila, going back over a decade, so I am always happy to find ingredients or techniques that even out the rough spots with that particular libation.

OK: standard starters, I use Stirrings mixer, 2 parts mix to 1 part Tequila. Then the magic:

I throw in about 1/2 oz. of Limoncello per ounce of tequila, but it's a rough measurement, and ok to err on the heavy handed side. I then add just a dash of real lemon juice (I keep some around in a bottle because I always buy more than I need when I get lemons, and just squeeze it and store it). I throw it in a Boston shaker over ice- only because, as a hopeless romantic, I simply love the aesthetic of that style shaker. So it gets used.

The overall effect is that I have a margarita with a very nicely rounded-off flavor, the limoncello giving a little extra sweetness, and the lemon juice keeping the sweetness in check.

Try it. I think you'll like it.

2018 Update: Since marrying the most wonderful woman, I have changed the recipe slightly. We keep around a jar of jalapeno-infused tequila (my wife's doing), which I substitute for half the tequila, and I have switched out the Stirrings for a combination of freshly squeezed limes and simple syrup, although I take no issue with using a margarita mix for convenience and quickness. We drink them out of coupes, which I find charming- again, thanks to my wife's eye for barware and affinity for classic aesthetics. 

So, I have threatened to do this for some time now. I love to eat, I love music, I have very set opinions on art (ignoring a lack of terribly thorough education on the subject- I go solely on my gut's inclinations), and I like to hear myself think, on paper at least. And my annual Christmas letter is generally well received, so I have confidence that at least some of you, at least some of the time, want to hear at least some of my thoughts, or at least observe the manner in which I present them, content and point of view be damned.

I shall give Celia Jacobs the greatest credit for the push re: my thoughts on Ravel's Piano Concerto in G, posted on Facebook. I dare say that this was the single-most-responded-to post that I have ever had, so, again, I hope that there is some interest in what is going on within the small bit of mental real estate set out henceforth.

Thanks for the attention. I am the youngest child of three, and I love attention. Just ask my mother.