The Chronicles of Marge

Thanksgiving 2011

It is 6:30 a.m. Thanksgiving morning. I write this from the darkness of my living room, which pretty much sums up the way I feel about Thanksgiving this year. My family—the core six of us—had planned to spend the holiday in New Orleans, and for a family whose holiday motto is Same Time Next Year, Y'all, this was a big deal. But then those plans went away at the last minute for reasons I won't explain on the Internet but which can be summed up in the following two words: Family Drama. 

I spent most of the weekend crying, more for the disappointment of not going to New Orleans with my family and less for the drama. Jason and I also tried to come up with a fun family alternative, but no one seemed willing, able, or excited. In a nutshell: I have lost all motivation toward the holiday this year...except toward thoughts about food.

So yesterday, I decided to make a cheesecake, and whatever Jason and I decided to do today would involve that cheesecake. Thus, we ventured to the Whole Foods on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, and Y'all, it was getting real in the Whole Foods parking lot if you know what I mean; in addition, they were out of the special little buggies that I so love, but Jason graciously offered to carry a basket for me instead. 

I needed to buy some graham crakers to make the crust of the cheesecake, and of course the entire selection at the Whole Foods was in excess of $4 a box and I also wasn't sure if any of them would actually taste like a food product, so I went with the cheapest box.

A mistake.

I got home and opened up that package of graham crakers and it was like looking at a box of square cow chips, and then I put one in my mouth it tasted like a cow chip too. I was not sure that butter and brown sugar could remedy the situation, but I was too tired to go back out into the world to buy some cheap and highly processed and preserved graham crakers that didn't taste like shit, so I carried on and made the cheesecake.

While the cake was in the oven, my grandmother called to invite us to her house for Thanksgiving dinner. Secretly, Jason and I had already planned on attending, but we had not told anyone because I felt like maybe the family needed to try something new for the holiday, something called Uncertainty, but obviously no one in my family is capable of dealing with that so they have to preempt any surprise with a phone call. I swear not less than 5 minutes later, my mother called to say that she was not going to my grandmother's house but would be having Thanksgiving at her house and we were invited and that was okay with my grandmother, but of course whatever we deciced to do would be fine with everyone and no feelings would be hurt. And if you are from a Southern family you know what that means: anything you decide will be fine as long as it is what your mother wants.

I went to bed last night not telling anyone where Jason and I would end up today. But trust me, we will arrive at someone's house carrying a pumpkin cheesecake with a cow dung crust, and I will tell folks that my feelings won't be hurt if they don't eat the cheesecake. So of course they will eat it to avoid feeling guilty because that is just how these things work.

Happy Thanksgiving!

The Via Alpina: Part 4

Things You Should Know Before Staying in a Matratzenlager

• It is possible you will share a room with 40 people you have never seen before in your life. Heck, you might even share the same sleeping surface with 10 people you have never seen before in you life. Mentally prepare yourself for this in advance, but rejoice when you discover the establishment is only 30% full.
• There’s a chance the hot chocolate will cost €3 and will taste a lot like warm water. 
• Find an English speaker, even if you embarrass yourself in the process, and ask them what time dinner is served because after backpacking 8 miles, you’ll be glad for a meal. However, understand that food must be airlifted into this remote location, which could translate into some “special time” in the toilet later on in the evening. 
• And speaking of toilets: it will be cold in there because the window is somehow always open no matter how many times you close it. Share this information with your backside in advance because sitting down will be startling.
• Unless you are lucky enough to score a double room, you will have absolutely no alone time while staying in the establishment. And if you are like me and Jason, after a full day on the trail, all you will want is to rest in a secure location for a couple hours before dinner and then retreat there immediately after you eat and go straight to bed—you know, at the really late hour of 7:30 p.m. But instead, you will most likely be in a 40-person room, and taking a nap in a 40-person room at 4:30 in the afternoon is a bit uncomfortable, and if you go to bed at 7:30 p.m., you might as well write the word LOSER on a piece of paper and tape that to your head as you sleep. And it doesn’t even matter what language the other guests speak because they all know what that word means and they will think you are one even without the sign, so why not be bold about it. 
• You will see people naked or at least partially naked and most likely they will be older than you and will have no qualms about being naked because they have been alive for almost seven decades and just don’t give a shit anymore. For example, I saw one dude who was pushing 70 STRIDING across the room in nothing but his black briefs and a tank top (I would call it a wife-beater, but he was European and I’m just not sure the term works for a European like it works for an American), and then he walked down the hall and THEN WALKED DOWN THE STAIRS because why put clothes on to visit a cold effin’ toilet in a cold effin’ Matratzenlager around a bunch of people who have never seen you in your underwear before? But because I was staring, I knew the answer to that question. You see, I was not staring in horror; I was staring in a state of Hot Damn because, seriously, if I was 70 years old and had legs like that, I’d be walking around in nothing but my underwear too. Hell, if I was 33 years old and had those legs, I’d be in little but my underwear most days. But alas, there is this thing in my life called cellulite, and all I have to say about that is Where are my pants?