Every girl has a little black dress.
It’s short and cute. Smells a little bit like wine and fine dining and that wedding she went to last year where she came thisclose to making out with a groomsman.
But didn’t.
Because she’s just not that kind of girl. And this is just not that kind of dress.
(It’s far too classy for that kind of thing.)
Friends with benefits.
Let’s dissect.
Friend noun. A person attached to another by feelings of affection or personal regard.
Benefit noun. Something that promotes or enhances well-being; an advantage.
Pretty benign so far. Let’s delve deeper.
I spent an irrational amount of my high school years protesting.
We walked out. We sat in. We made posters. We chanted.
Heck, we all but marched on Washington.
And yet, that’s really not me. I’m not usually one to get swept away with self righteousness or feel a connection to a cause that’s so all-encompassing that I’m sure I can’t live without blocking traffic or toilet paper-ing someone’s car.
This may come as a surprise. But I’m pretty complacent.
In case you haven’t noticed by now, I have a thing for mildly attractive, slightly insane, totally in-your-face chefs. First, there was Anthony Bourdain who is exactly the kind of guy you would never want to take home to your parents but who you’re totally going to sleep with anyway. Just look at the man. You know he’s going to give you the best night of your life, followed by steak and pommes frites for breakfast the next morning. Man of my dreams.
Then, there was, is and ever will be Michael Symon. Bald, adorable, unapologetic about his disdain for vegetarian food and absolutely self righteous in his adoration of pork belly and beef cheeks. Gotta love a man with principles. Even if you don’t necessarily agree with them. It makes him that much hotter.
Boisterous.
That is the word that I would use to describe the typical Eats Well With Others family Thanksgiving. (A few others come to mind as well…but it’s the holiday season, people. And so I’m trying to play nice.)
There are tequila shot contests. Screaming matches. And it’s rare that the meal goes by without someone making an explosive exit, slamming the door behind them as they go, and yelling that they’re applying for emancipation the next day because they want nothing to do with this family ever again. Only to return again the next year to perform the same theatrics all over again.
Like I said. “Boisterous”.
This year, however. Was different.
My brother and cousin cut themselves off at the point of jovial drunkenness (you know, before the manic rage set in). My father only told my uncle to “get the f*** out of his house” a mere five times instead of the usual thirty-two. And my grandmother didn’t accuse a single person of trying to steal her money.
Truly, it was a holiday of miracles.
I am thankful.
I am thankful for four day vacations. During which I can spend one day clogging my arteries and the remaining three learning how to figure out what’s wrong with them once I do. What kind of heart sounds – mid-systolic clicks, diastolic murmurs, holosystolic rumbles – I should be looking for. What they mean. And what I can do about them once they’re there.
This is the problem with becoming a doctor. You know too much.
Welcome to Eats Well With Others, where we take a vegetable-and-cupcake laden approach to life (always with a bit of laughter on the side)!
