We sat around a rickety second-hand table, creaking from plates of flavor profiles as much of a mismatch to each other as the chairs surrounding them. Chicken teriyaki stir-fry made from a jarred sauce and a rainbow of vegetables. Random cheeses from Whole Foods. Brussels sprouts, slightly charred; sweet potatoes baked whole in their skins. On the fancier end, medium-rare steak crostini, fresh-baked sourdough, some shrimp cocktail, and seared tuna bites.
“Dig in!” Leah urged Sal and me. “I’ll go get the turkey.”
“What turkey?” Sal and I glanced at each other perplexed; we didn’t see one in the oven while standing uselessly in the way with glasses of Yellow Tail.
“This turkey,” she announced proudly, pulling out the symbolic bird from the freezer.
Above a red cake form with orange and yellow swirls piped around the sides, brown tubes of cookies arranged with artful haphazardness where the presumed cake met the plate, was a apricot-hued, lumpy, clay-like … turkey.
A solid ice cream turkey. White drumstick bones, gangly wings and all. Thoughtfully made in my and Sal’s favorite flavors.
“Happy first Friendsgiving, guys!” she beamed, “Isn’t this ridiculous?”
…Somehow, though, it wasn’t.