Since commentary on George’s hypocrisy will only hold so much weight with those of you who haven’t met him, I thought I’d focus instead on Thanksgiving in Chatswin. Suburban Thanksgivings might be equally difficult to care about, but they do offer some pretty spectacular visuals worth describing.
First off, the invitations. The tradition of gilded invitations remains alive and well thank God. I scraped enough gold leaf off ours to buy a car. It’s the personal reminders, though, that really make the holiday. We had a six-foot-four Pilgrim struggle through Victorian-era English to invite us to the Royce’s dinner. Despite the anachronism, or perhaps because of it, that’s a pretty perfect snapshot of a Chatswin Thanksgiving.
Then there’s the actual dinner. It could be that only the Big Apple doesn’t dress as Indians or Pilgrims for the occasion, but I doubt it. And now, whenever I think of Thanksgiving, “Founders or Feathers” will be the first thing that comes to mind. The second will be Dallas in her size-zero Native American princess costume. I’m not disparaging her – she was kind enough to take me to the city and have us to dinner, so I will be gracious and call her outfit tasteful. But I would rather not have seen Dalia’s take on Pilgrim call girls.
There is more I could discuss – arguments during Thanksgiving dinner are not unique to Chatswin, passive-aggressive posturing over self-published works on Pennsylvania wine counties is – but the tryptophan is starting to kick in. It’s worth noting, though, while my first Thanksgiving in Chatswin would have been memorable no matter what, the memories are not wholly terrible.