In Which We Play

 

Bon appetit 

My friends Drumstick and Hotfoot and I had a nice Thanksgiving dinner, really a late lunch. It was in a hotel downtown that until recently has been frumpy and teetering on the edge of shabby, but it's been all tarted up now and the dining room we were in is really very pretty. 

The Post Room

And the food was good, maybe not great, but really how much do you ever expect from Thanksgiving anyway?  Because it was a buffet, there was a greater range than the typical turkey day spread and you could broaden your culinary horizons.  In fact, I skipped the turkey (which I was told was dry, no surprise there) and had some very tender roast beef instead.  My theory is everyone wants the holiday dinners their grannies knocked out and certainly over the years and years that I cooked that is exactly what I recreated, but since that wasn't available, I was perfectly satisfied.  My main complaint was the lack of mashed potatoes.  Personally, I regard no mashed potatoes as a crime against humanity and I thought about reporting them to the FBI but I decided to just let it slide. 

Afterwards, lying around in a food induced coma (which the cat thought is the best idea ever) I was thinking about the tradition of playing games after a big dinner.  Because what else can you do?  My family always played a domino game called 42.  It is very much like the card game Spades with bidding and trumps and keeping track of score by the number of tricks you take. I believe we played dominoes because my grandmother was a very firm Southern Baptist and they had a prohibition against playing cards, but somehow dominoes were okay.  That's the kind of letter-of-the-law thinking that leads to accusations of heresy, but what the hell?

I vividly remember when I was young being lulled to sleep by the soft click of dominoes being shuffled and then when I was old enough, how thrilling it was to be allowed to play.  The game requires you to play as partners so there was considerable pressure to not fuck up.  My father's siblings were sweet and easy going right up to when it was time to play at which point the motherfucking knives came out.  They were all very good players and did not like to lose just because you were inexperienced.  My father once got so exasperated at my poor nephew Ace that he threw a domino at Ace's head.  I just watched and laughed because honestly, the kid was an idiot when it came to keeping track fo what had been played.  But it turned out I was a good player so I loved it and I miss those games.

Many years later, when I would host holiday dinners for my friends, we would end the evenings with rowdy games of Yahtzee.  They would be fueled with lots of champagne and enlivened with serious shit talking.  Channeling the spirits of my domino crazed ancestors, mrpeenee leaned into attempting to break my opponent's psyches.  If I couldn't win by rolling dice, by god I would at least imply that they had inadequate penises.  Good times.

Guys I'd like to play with: 

Whoohoo

A generous meat.

There's a lot of buttchops this week.  We give thanks.

I know I don't give enough space to daddies.  Sorry.

Asstastic

Last week, I focused on naked guys at the beach.  I don't know how I overlooked this fine, fine specimen.

Speaking of fine specimens.

Spread like a turkey getting ready to be stuffed.

In Which We Give Minimal Thanks

 

Oh ladies and lady boys, this year for Thanksgiving I decided I would not cook for once.  Secret Agent Fred and I thought we would be the only ones of our friends who would be in town, so we started shaking down restaurants to find where we might go.  Sort of just arbitrarily, we wound up at the Four Seasons Hotel.  Because we are fancy boys, that's why.  Then about a month ago, our good friends, Drumstick and Hot Foot, announced they were not going to be leaving town.  They did so with the air of a dog who wants to go out for a walk, so I invited them along.

The Four Seasons really is a pretty swanky joint. It used to be decorated in extreme good taste, lots of silk and velvet and mohair all in a taupe/gold/turquoise palette.  The last time I was there was before R Man died and that was 12 years ago and even then all the finishes and upholstery were sort of tatty.  They obviously got theirselves together because it's all been redone, but in a very disappointing mushroom gray blandness. Yuck 

The dining room where we were eating is on the 5th floor and has big windows along Market Street in the very heart of downtown, so it was a very big city kind of experience.  Aside from the views though, dinner was sort of meh.  

We started off with an amuse bouche which sounded interesting on the menu (octopus, chorizo aioli, and potatoes) but which did not really amuse my bouche.  It was followed up by very nice frisee salad with grapefruit and crab in it.  And then a lobster tagliatelle course. I assume they boiled the lobster and then saved the water as a kind of court bullion to cook the pasta in.  I thought the lobster was very tasty, but I didn't like the pasta carrying a kind of fishy flavor.

The main course, of course, was all the All-Stars of Thanksgiving gone by: turkey, dressing, mashed potatoes, and green beans.  The turkey was bland, and so was the dressing which also had an odd gummy texture.  The mashed potatoes, which should be the star of the evening were served as an artistic smear across the plate.  I say if your mashed potatoes are thin enough that you can paint with them, you have done something wrong, very wrong.  The green beans were green beans.

The whole dessert course was made up of tiny little sweet things, sort of like what you get at tea and was entirely forgettable.

Then the check came, has it almost always does, and it turned out to be $300 a person. Three. Hundred. Fucking. Dollars.  I am happy as anyone to fling money about, but I really prefer a bigger bang.

I felt like I was being punished for not cooking.

And now, some boys to give thanks for:

What I really would have preferred for the day.

Even I know it's not baseball season, silly, but who could refuse a butt like that?

Konstatin Resch.  When I first saw this, I thought he had a giant padlock on the head of his dick.  I thought his boyfriend was being very sensible, but then I realized I just needed to clean my glasses.

That is some mighty fine amuse bouche.

Athan Seville.  You know he is both cute and trouble.

More tasty than the mashed potatoes tonight.

This guy originally worked in the porn trenches under the name "Flex," but now he's expanded it into Flex  Xtremmo, which just proves you actually can make any situation worse.

One of our new favorites, Massimo Arad.

Doesn't everyone love Austin Wolf?  I know I do.

A classic.

Sports.  They're everywhere.

More Thanks. Lotsa Thanks.

Oh, hay.  Do I still have a blog?  Waddya know?

Do you remember Thanksgiving?  A couple of weeks ago?  Some friends and I went down to Big Sur to spend the Feast of Fat in this place that was astonishingly sumptuous.

This is the view from the backyard.

To paraphrase Oscar Wilde, "I find it harder and harder every day to live up to Northern California's excessive prettiness."  Sometimes it's sort of oppressive, much like what I assume dating this guy might be like.

I made turkey and cornbread dressing and gravy, all of which was totally delicious, if I say so myself, and our friend J made pulled pork for sammiches, which was even more tasty and the place even had a dance floor where mrpeenee demonstrated the moves that made him the terror of bars throughout the 80s

and there was a giant soaking jacuzzi tub for after dancing.  All fabulous.  And that's when the cocaine came out.

Oh my little schnitzels, I haven't done any coke since Ronald Reagan was president, but it turns out I can still snorfle it up like a Dyson.  My co-miscreants, all of whom are considerably younger than me and were not around for the Liza Minnelli years were most impressed.  Apparently they had fallen for my respectable facade all these years.

Equally impressive to them was at the very end, when there was only smallish pile left and someone (NOT ME) spilled water on it.  I had only the briefest pause before I announced "I'm licking that up."  Who wants to waste cocaine?  It was one of those decisions you make that even as you're processing it, you think "Probably not the best idea," but that doesn't stop you.  And besides the feeling returned to my tongue by the next morning.  Pretty much.

A lovely Thanksgiving.

Everything counts in large amounts.

Thanks Were Given

Thanksgiving, yes, it actually can be amusing, especially if you cut out all the family drama and sneak off to the beauties of Big Sur instead.

Food was terribly tasty. Nom nom, in fact.

We went hiking along a trail I remembered from years ago as both easy and charming, wandering back and forth along a small creek up to some waterfalls. But when we got to the start, the path made a sharp left and then veered up a steep ravine. After we had slogged there and back, I read the park's brochure and found out the old trail had been the victim of a big fire down there in 2008 and they rerouted it so the old one could recuperate. Burned, schmurned, I say. The end was the only good part.

But then, we went to the beach a couple of times cause, you know, it's California and stuff. Man, was that ever worth it.

Balmy, sunny weather down amongst the gorgeous rock formations and a few notably cute boys just to make things interesting.

Also, we played Yahtzee every night, including the evening where I hit 7 (SEVEN) yahtzees in four hands and still only won one of them. I had obviously fallen in with a rough crowd. Dice sharks.

I know this is not what Brian Eno playing a fast hand of Yahtzee actually looks like, but it is what I think he SHOULD look like.

A Movable Feast

Don't mind me sweetie, I'm cooking, Thanksgiving dinner to be precise, and you know how slightly psycho I get when in my hash-slinging modus. It's true, the total kitchen bitch. Fortunately I am here all alone so no one has to put up with my shrieking and cursing. Even Saki has been exiled to one of the bedrooms upstairs, aka Cat Jail.

We're leaving tomorrow to drive down the coast to Big Sur for a few days and since I suspect the kitchen in the cabin we've rented is rudimentary, I thought it would be smart to get the cooking out of the way. Plus I don't want to share my madness with the friends I'm going with.

So now I've roasted a boneless turkey breast with a French garnish under the skin

My recreation of my grandmother's cornbread dressing, because I am as big a Southern girl at heart as Paula Dean.

Speaking of the Queen of Grease Refinement, I also have gravy. But of course. Smooth as silk, but much, much tastier.

The beautiful, beautiful Cranberry Apricot Ginger Chutney.

And Vicodin.

The vicodin is especially handy since I clumsily tangled with the handle of the roasting pan while getting it out of the oven. Ouchywow.

We had a planning meeting last weekend for this trip and I have to say, I'm looking forward to it immensely. Food, hanging around, card games, maybe hiking, if I'm not too lazy, woo to the hoo, in short, even if we aren't able to share it with Diane von Austinburg. Rats.

Although we will technicaly be at the beach, I do not expect any of this.

Tragic, I know.

Diane-less

OK, you can consider me officially bummed out. Man. Our beloved Diane von Austinburg was scheduled to come out for Thanksgiving and we were going to go down the coast to Big Sur to hang out for the annual celebration of carbohydrates. Then last month, Diane broke her tail bone. Sitting is very painful, so a four hour plane ride and then a three hour drive down the thrilling but zig zaggy coastal highway is just such a dumb idea not even I can endorse it, despite my astonishing powers of being delusional.

Let me make clear I really am disappointed and feel awful about the poor thing's on-going pain. That said, because I have the sense of humor of a sixth grader, I cannot let go of the inherent sniggering in a bone named "coccyx" and commonly referred to as the "tail bone." I am ashamed. I am a bad friend. And yet, I snigger.

I'm not alone in this. Our friend Super Agent Fred asked her if she cracked it practicing her triple axle lutz. John, another pal, suggested the break had obviously come about during a skateboarding spree. I favor a simpler and more broad reaching conclusion: shenanigans. She can blame tripping over her cat all she wants, there is still a free floating implication of sexual gymnastics gone bad, terribly, terribly bad.

So, now that I have that more or less out of my system, let me reiterate how sorry I am for her. Poor thing.

Houseboy Jinx Nocturnus demonstrates a functional coccyx:

T-Day Minus One and Counting

Three years ago, we hosted twelve people for Thanksgiving dinner. Much beloved, one and all, but dear god, what a butt load of work. We had to have an overflow table; in order to not make sure no one felt second best seated there, I made up place cards consisting of photos of famous (or infamous) women (or sort-of women,) had people draw names, and then match their draws with the pictures. It was a supremely Martha Stewart moment, even if I did have to explain who some of the gals were. My favorite was Zsa Zsa Gabor's mug shot from when she slapped that cop, but I was plenty happy with drawing Divine.

Thank the goddess for Diane von Austinberg who was such a tremendous help in cooking, but I still turned into the Kitchen Nazi once again, barking orders and withering comments on my guests' attempts at prep work. "GO. Drink on the goddam patio and get out of my fucking kitchen," tends to be my byword in these situations. I had spread sheets breaking down the whole thing into 15 minute increments for three days. R Man and those other unfortunates who get in my way think that because I am a flipped out, shrieking queen, I am not enjoying myself. Nothing could be further from the truth. I revel in the challenge and I triumph, bitches. Triumph. As I tuck into my version of my granny's cornbread dressing, I think "Yes, I did it. I am invincible."

Drugs help.

This year, swinging to the complete polar opposite, we will be joining two of our friends at the Hotel W for a massive lunch and then we will come home for a nap. I plan on reveling in that, too.