2000-11-11
Dear Diary:

Folks of all ages came from miles around to take part in our teensy community's annual all you can eat fall supper tonight because when you get right down to it, there's nothing quite like a mass turkey stupour, eh.

Brian and his daughter Hailey wait for turkey and all the fixings to appear. Technically the doors don't open until 5:30 but folks start the line-up at 4:30. It's not just the food. Trust me, the food is super because it's all cooked by local folks (and frankly you haven't lived until you've tasted Nancy's turkey dressing which was her great-grandmother's recipe).

It's also the fellowship.

That's the thing that struck me as I ladled dollops of mashed potatoes, scoops of peas and carrots and then gave the plate to Nancy to finish with turkey, dressing and home made gravy--it was the loud buzz of conversation.

And that's the glory of a small place. It's the first thing I miss when I go into Montreal. There are lots of benefits in such a big city, but when I walk down the street there, there is very little eye contact. When I ride the Metro (subway) most folks are either wrapped in the isolation of their headphones or buried in a book.

I live outside a tiny isolated village but in many ways I think I am less alone than people in big cities. I know the people around me and they know me. People meet your eye when you walk down the street, and there's time for small talk.

We had a record turnout this year, and by the time 7 p.m. rolled around there was just enough food left to feed the dozen or so of us who filled the plates, served the food and bussed the tables. Some of Mrs. Dudley's amazing home made buns were still left and best of all I had an "in" at the dessert table.

Yep, my mom-in-law was in charge of The Land o' Sweets. Having worked these meals for more than ten years, I had my cunning plan in place. Before the doors officially opened, the two of us surveyed the dessert table carefully. Then, with all the skill of a South American junta, we disappeared one of Norma's pies and Terry's scrumptious carrot cake.

Presto, chango, they reappeared at the end of the meal when it became time for the workies to eat. Bliss, pure sugar bliss.

When it comes to eating a pie with a good crust or the perfect piece of carrot cake, a woman's gotta do what a woman's gotta do. As I see it, all's fair in love and desserts.

--Marn

Old Drivel - New Drivel


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This template is a riff on a design by the truly talented Quinn. Because I'm a html 'tard, I got alot of pity coding to modify it from Ms. Kittay, a woman who can make html roll over, beg, and bring her her slippers. The logo goodness comes from the God of Graphics, the Fuhrer of Fonts, the one, the only El Presidente. I smooch you all. The background image is part of a painting called Higher Calling by Carter Goodrich which graced the cover of the Aug. 3, 1998 issue of The New Yorker Magazine.

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2000, 2001, 2002 Marn. This is me, dagnabbit. You be you.