Beethoven Turkey Cinema: The Unlikely 2010 Thanksgiving of Ryan & Shelley

The Thanksgiving holiday is a rather odd American tradition in which we stop our regular lives mid-week, engage in often extraordinary pursuit of simultaneous long-distance travel, and then give ourselves licence to gorge on food and television for at least 1, and oftentimes as many as 4 consecutive days. It kicks off an orgy of materialist economy, and is often bracketed with spectacles from giant balloon mascots to interstate sports rivalries.

Growing up, my family split Thanksgiving holidays between our South Texas Webers, and the Oklahoma Webbers (it's a long story, but for the record, it involves no intermarriage, but has dubbed my brothers and I the "3-b Web[b]er Boys"). In a move that I'm sure is quite common among the decreasing number of American nuclear families, we alternated Thanksgiving and Christmas so that one was spent each year with one side, and then the holidays flipped the next year.

The two families were located in neighboring states, but separated by 500 miles of interstate highway, a straight shot down I-35 from OKC to San Antonio. As a result, they were both culturally similiar, yet geographically distant. Another marked difference was that the OKC Webbers (et al) were exclusively "city folk," being that they grew up and lived in major urban centers their entire lives. The Texas Webers (who are much more numerous) are a different story, residing mostly in semi-rural cities like Hondo, Uvalde or Castroville. Don't mis-read; thanks to cable TV, the internet, etc. they are all very much members of the 21st century, and most no longer live and work on farms and ranches. But many grew up in those environs, and many more stayed close, or even returned to them, after time in San Antonio, Houston, or NYC.

Strange as it is, the Webber/Weber contrast of metropolitan and "ruro-politan" communities provided me with some of the most dramatic culture clashes of my pre-college life (it's Oklahoma, people, we aren't known for diversity).

Example #1 - In Oklahoma, my father, an oil & gas attorney - wore olive slacks, yellow button-downs, and paisley ties, went by "Jim" and signed paperwork as "James William Weber." Anywhere south of Dallas, he was "Jimmy" (usually pronounced "Jim-eh"), wore jeans, and on more than one occasion, squeezed into the very old cowboy boots he still keeps in the back of his closet.

Example #2 - In Texas, children over the age of 12 were allowed to pour their fathers (and mothers) a jack-and-coke at the card table in the garage that served as the event's open bar. My Oklahoma family didn't serve alcohol on holidays. This even included the grand annual vaudevillian affair, The Webber Musicale, a caroling/recital/talent show tradition that continues to shock and amaze the uninitiated that such a thing could even exist, let alone as a dry event.

In addition to the requisite warmth of shared family bonds, the two things that both sides of the singular Web[b]er family coin had in common when it came to the holidays were Turkey and Football. Again, I don't want to assume this is universal in American culture, but it is certainly common. Ham makes a strong bid for Christmas time, but we Web[b]ers like our turkey, and the Webbber boys are no exception.

This brings us (finally) to the odd circumstances of my past 3 thanksgivings, in which professional commitments or personal budget has disallowed me from sharing the celebration of over-indulgence with either of these factions of my heritage.

In 2008, Shelley and I accepted a generous invitation from my cousin Amy to join her, her husband, and her husband's immediate family on an extended retreat at their Vermont home. November is a cold time to visit VT, but we made an excellent weekend of crafting, cooking from scratch, finishing a term paper, and exploring Montpelier. (my blog entry from that trip)

November 2009 again found me with a heavy load of papers on my plate, and Shelley back in Houston after finishing her 2nd national tour. We were getting married in about 1 month, and had, to that point, lived in different states/countries for the previous 11 months. It was a long, and somewhat lonely period, during which my school work and part-time job overwhelmed all other activies and energies (as this Nov 2009 post demonstrates). Alone and over-worked, I skipped out on Thanksgiving altogether. The day after, I decided this would not stand, so I went on-line and ordered myself the smallest available smoked turkey Greenberg. It was delivered the next week, and I took a break to enjoy Sunday Night Football streaming on my computer (no cable/antenna in the NY flat).

For 2010, Shelley and I were desperate to get back to Texas, but being un/under-employed and living on a tightly-regimented budget, we decided that such an escape just wasn't feasible. Making matters worse, most of the few friends we have in DC were doing just what we couldn't - fleeing the capital for San Antonio and Oklahoma to savor breakfast tacos and family time. To make up for it in small part, I ordered another 5lb Greenberg turkey, a move I'm rapidly considering making a tradition. It's a lot of turkey for 1 person to eat (Shelley is a vegetarian), but a challenge I'm apparently capable of handling.

Luckily for us, one good friend happened to be moving in the opposite direction, coming to DC for the holiday from his NYC home. What follows are the odd circumstances and slightly more odd events that transpired for our 2010 Thanksgiving.

Mike has been a good friend of mine since college, when he was the primary instructor and de facto leader of our swing dance club, the Swing Bums. After college he bounced between Austin and New York, finally settling in the latter, where he met the wonderful and talented Ms. Emily. She grew up in DC, got a degree in classical violin, went back to school, and just landed an awesome job with the National Institute of Medicine in DC. But not before Mike made his move and proposed. They are now living apart - Mike in New York and Emily with her parents outside DC - and traveling back and forth furiously until Mike (presumably) moves to DC in May (before their summer wedding). This is a lot to process, but it bears on the Thanksgiving in question because these two, and their on/off communications skills, were at the heart of our eventual plans.

Emily, who speaks fluent French and studied abroad there last year, decided she would take her vacation time and go back to France for Thanksgiving. The idea (as I understood it) was that she and Mike would go and meet all Em's French friends, etc. But somehow, Mike didn't make it to France. He's doing some more school, and either workload, scheduling, or whatever, caused him to bail on the France plan. Emily still went, and by all accounts had a fabulous time.

But that left Mike, in New York, alone on Thanksgiving.

As I mentioned, Mike & Emily have been traveling a lot to see one another since Em moved to DC, and when they come South, that means spending time with Emily's parents (since she lives with them). The of course, being good future-in-laws, invited Mike to spend Thanksgiving with them, rather than sitting by himself in an empty Brooklyn apartment. And since they were now having Thanksgiving dinner, they also invited Shelley and I to join them as we, too, were "holiday orphans."

So we went to Arlington to have Thanksgiving dinner with the future-in-laws of a college friend - absent their own daughter.

The couple, Tom and Barbara, are extremely kind and open people, both of whom previously worked for NPR in the 1970s, and both of whom thereafter moved into teaching of one type or another. He taught high school until "semi-retiring" and she teaches music. They are also both volunteer ushers at Arena Stage, giving them ample interest and cross-over to talk with Shelley, who is a fellow in the Managing Director's office there.

The evening, which started at 2 pm, included only us, Mike, and the hosts, took place in their warm family home, adorned with a lifetime of fond memories, various keepsakes, and one especially adorable oil painting of a cherubic teen-aged Emily. In many ways, it was entirely similar to a standard Thanksgiving - there was Turkey, pumpkin pie, and a very close approximation of awkward family connections you know, but not very well.

Other aspects were less familiar. The cable converted had fritzed out a few weeks back, and despite just getting a bigger TV (a 27" cast off Tube television from a friend who had upgraded to flatscreen), they decided to try life without cable, and found they liked it very much. Since now digital broadcast requires a special antenna, that was also on the blink, with the result being that I spent my second Thanksgiving ever without football. Instead, we listened to the triumphant 'top 10' finale of the local Classical radio station's listener-vote Top 100 countdown, which I can only assume has been going on for the last several months. #1 (with a bullet!) was Beethoven's 9th, which got underway around the 9 o'clock hour.

Dinner included a lot of traditional holiday dishes with twists I was less accustomed too. Green beans with sliced almonds. Mashed sweet potatoes with a brown sugar and pecan crust. Cornbread stuffing. Shel and my contribution was a Root Veggie casserole, which veered rapidly toward stew, including potatoes, sweet potatoes, carrots, onions, and radishes. None of these were a culinary revolution (ok, almond green beans might have changed my world), nor were any a significant break from the expectations of the season. But it made me think of all the little nuance that must still survive in our increasingly homogeneous culture.

The meal was served with white wine and water; I was almost the only person to partake in the Coca-Cola I brought along to be helpful. Tom partook of a glass late in the evening with the same measured enjoyment that I've seen my father express over his "beer-of-the-year" indulgence. We also took sips of a Kyrgyz Cognac I brought back from Bishkek and seemed a good fit for the evening. That, in turn, coaxed out a small bottle of Apple Schnapps that a Slovak friend had bestowed upon Tom and Barbara, and an unfortunately (?) empty bottle of Becherovka - a liquor I developed quite a taste for while traveling in Estonia.

After dinner we took a walk (! - What? Exercise on Thanksgiving!) around the neighborhood. It has been a bizarrely warm this November, and on the night in question had just the slightest bite of chill in the high-40s.

Upon returning to the house (we've reached #4 on the Classical countdown), we were invited to stay and enjoy the latest DVD Tom and Barbara received from Netflix. Having just watched (somewhat by accident) the bawdy 2009 comedy, Hot Tub Time Machine, the previous evening through that same service, and having really nothing else to do with our time, we elected to stay and see what was on the que.

It was Breathless ("A Bout de Souffle"), the first feature-length film by Jean-Luc Godard from 1960. Nothing goes with a Tryptophan coma like French New Wave Cinema. I don't mean that in a strictly positive sense - Turkey is not art house fare for a reason - but it is certainly a singular combination, difficult to replicate or even imagine. Like an Elepheasant.

The movie was of course great - it's a classic - with Jean Seberg looking more fresh and vibrant than most of today's leading ladies (sorry Amy Adams, Anne Hathaway, Katherine Heigl, et al). The soundtrack was its own masterwork, courtesy of French Jazz pianist Martial Solal (and for those familiar, it was so, SO Solal!). The movie's closing line (*spolier alert) when the hero lies dying in his lover's arms, is difficult to translate into english, but the particular decision in the subtitles was ill chosen for our occasion.

MICHEL: C'est vraiment dégueulasse.
PATRICIA: Qu'est ce qu'il a dit?
INSPECTOR: Il a dit que vous êtes vraiment "une dégueulasse".
PATRICIA: Qu'est ce que c'est "dégueulasse"?

Our translation:

MICHEL: [the world] Makes me want to puke.
PATRICIA: What did he say?
VITAL: He said you [?] make him want to puke.
PATRICIA: What's that mean, "puke"?

Indeed, what's that mean, "puke"?

Seconds, anyone.

We closed out the evening by piling into Tom's new pickup truck, a 1.5 cab Ford F-150. It was a recent upgrade from their long history of owning practical, fuel-efficient 4-door sedans and compacts, and he was excited for the excuse of taking us home to go for a ride. Mike and Barbara joined us, and we cruised through the deserted streets of downtown Washington, DC, alit with street lights and haunted by those final words of a dying celluloid thief.

Weber

::(lame) Texpatriot