There were no mashed potatoes. No potatoes of any kind, in fact, but save your outrage for the following travesty.

No gravy.

Not a drop. Miss Kitty thinks that Hostess made some but forgot to put it out. I don't. For one thing, she forgot the cranberry sauce, noticed before too many people had gone through the chow line, and ran into the kitchen to get it. I'm pretty sure she would have noticed the missing gravy at that point. I made do with lots of cranberry sauce-- that poor turkey was crying out for it, as was the stuffing. Stovetop, of course. Looks like somebody has a friend who can shop at the embassy store. Further evidence: the ham, which was not too salty and possibly honey baked; the green bean casserole, with those french fried onions in a can sprinkled generously on top. I hate green beans. Although I hear the casserole was fine if you like that sort of thing. Miss Kitty did-- I found the recipe in a Campbell's Soup ad in an old magazine and ripped it out for her.

Miss Kitty had other issues, though.

Miss Kitty: There aren't any proper vegetables.
Dilettante: There's broccoli in that rice dish.
M K: How can you tell?
D: It's kind of green, and it has those little broccoli flecks. Also, I just know.
M K: (who is clearly not convinced) If you say so.
D: If you like the green bean thing, I'm sure you'll like this.
M K: (sighs and places tiny dab of broccoli rice casserole on plate) I was hoping for sprouts.

Here's another one. The part of Guest can be (and was) played by a Guest of any nationality, including American.

Guest: What's that? (pointing at big bowl of white fluffy stuff studded with chunks of something or other)
Dilettante: I have no idea.
G: It's not potatoes, is it?
D: Definitely not. It think it's Kool Whip or whipped cream of some sort, cream cheese, fruit cocktail and possibly nuts. (Note: I broke down later on and tasted it. I was pretty much right, except there was dried coconut in there as well. I hate coconut.)
G: (recoiling slightly) Oh.

Repeat ad nauseum. If the part of Guest is played by a non-american, add the following:

G: Is it traditional?
D: No! At least not in our house, or any house I've ever had Thanksgiving Dinner in. Well, I suppose it's traditional in the sense that someone always brings something rather disgusting, unidentifiable or both, it appears on the table as if by magic, and no one ever owns up to it.
Miss Kitty: I'm pretty sure Hostess made it herself.
Dilettante: Oh.

When I was growing up, the part of the Mystery Dish was played by a big bowl of red Jello (or jelly, or gelatin). Suspended in the Jello was a can of fruit cocktail. The top was coated with mayonnaise, and on top of the mayo was a layer of shredded cheddar cheese. We've managed to trace it to one of my cousins' wives, or possibly an aunt. We have never managed to narrow the pool of suspects to less than five. I'm convinced that my aunt knew who was responsible, and had decided to protect the guilty party. It was a darn big bowl: somebody must have seen it enter the kitchen. Maybe you could sneak it in once, but year after year?

Getting back to last Thursday, for dessert we had pumpkin pie and rice krispie treats. Both standard if a bit sweet, except for the addition of chocolate chips to half the treats. The Rice Krispie Treats were by special request from the Friend Who Can Shop In The Embassy Store, and seemed to be preferred by non-americans. Especially by the Portuguese, who have some serious sweet teeth.

All in all, a nice evening. They certainly had an interesting mix of people, and we enjoyed ourselves. Although I must admit that it felt kind of weird to leave without feeling overstuffed. I felt slightly hungry, even. Which was all to the good, because we hadn't quite finished with turkey yet.

On Saturday, we had our Thanksgiving Dinner. I spent all day Friday and a big chunk of Thursday getting ready for it, and I must say it turned out well.

This year, we (OK, I) put a strict control on the number of guests. I like having big parties, don't get me wrong, but I haven't really enjoyed Thanksgiving for the last couple of years. It just got all out of hand, and before you know it you have 30 people covering every square inch of living space, trying to deal with a fully loaded plate while standing up and trying not to elbow anyone while they eat. Last year, I hardly even got to eat anything, because the locusts had come and gone before I was able to get myself to the buffet. Success had taken care of the "invite everyone, they won't all come" mentality, because they all did. Marked it on their calendars a year in advance, no doubt. So, this year we invited twelve people. I would have liked to ask a lot of people, but I limited to seating space only.

And it was fabulous, if I do say so myself. Popeye managed to get me a turkey and some pumpkin and so forth. The bird was 22 pounds (10 Kg), it came out magazine beautiful and moist and so forth, and there really isn't much of it left, although enough for turkey sandwiches, and turkey enchiladas and a few other dinners as well. The cornbread stuffing was well loved, and there was enough to send some home with people, too. There is only a small bowl of mashed potatoes left, and enough green beans for Elvis to eat all week long. Which he will, as they're his favorite, cooked for hours in bacon fat. The apple pie will be gone after breakfast tomorrow. The pumpkin pie-- well, that was my boo-boo. I forgot to add sugar, although Pooka Boy ate half of his before I tasted mine and recognized the mistake. He'd never had it before, you see, and still thought it was perfectly edible. With ice cream, it was fine, although I sprinkled some sugar on it for my breakfast on Sunday. I love pumkpin pie for breakfast.

Maud and Harold came, and Harold got well and truly soused. He loved the wine-- well, all the wine, actually, but especially the white wine a friend brought. She's an older lady, not one to go out and party, so I wasn't sure how she'd take it. As it turned out, she took it just fine. It was kind of funny at first: "I love this wine," said Harold, stroking the bottle fondly, "where did you get it? It didn't cost much, did it? This is really good wine. And it's white! I don't usually like white wine. Where did you get it? It didn't cost much did it?" Repeat. And repeat. Stroking the bottle possesively all the while. I kept expecting him to call it My Precious. The purchaser of the white wine switched to red, but didn't seem to mind. That, or she was scared to disposses him of it. And this, my friends, was at the dinner table. On the bright side, no worries about making small talk for the rest of us. It was almost like a floor show. Harold was getting so hot and heavy with the wine bottle, though, that he didn't eat much. And the performance got old really fast.

Finally, about half way through dinner, he decided that he couldn't eat anymore, and that he would have a cigarette. Now, Elvis and I both smoke. But not while people are eating, and certainly not when almost half of the table are non-smokers. I told him that he was not going to have a cigarette. Maud, who had been placidly eating next to him, said very matter of factly, "He will."

Not in my house he won't. I sent him out to the balcony, and he went, very docile, which stunned me, frankly. This gave Elvis' Boss the chance to say, "That's very good wine. Where did you get it? How much did it cost?" Until his wife started to choke on her wine and made him stop.

So no worries there, then. I had been wondering if his sense of humor would stretch that far.

After dinner, however, Harold called Popeye a "fucking cunt", completely unprovoked and uncalled for. Luckily, Popeye has enough respect for me not to kill him on the spot. Pooka Boy kept Harold from following Popeye to the balcony where he had gone to cool off, then came in to warn me that Maud really needed to get Harold home before Popeye left and waited for him outside. Harold's a weedy little guy, and Popeye could reduce him to a small smear of blood and alcohol in no time. Maud, however, was already on it, and they left before dessert.

So, that was the traditional Thanksgiving Asshole element taken care of, I suppose. The thing is, you either get the fun, amusing Harold, or Harold the Bastard, and there is no way to tell which until after he arrives. Maud is nice though, and they invite us to their house all the time, so I sort of felt that I had to invite them, even though everyone's pretty much fed up with Harold.

Furthermore, when we went out to the Pub later (to walk off some of that turkey and pie and so forth-- Ha!), we discovered that the bottom of the glass door downstairs had been broken. From the inside, and we're pretty sure Harold did it for reasons I won't go into here, not least because this has turned into a monster entry, and I doubt there's anyone left to read it.

So, to summarize: a Good Day.

But it's going to be a long, long time before Harold sets foot in this house again.