I haven't done the Thanksgiving-in-Rome thing for three years, mainly because living with Mr. Pervy Bear during those times was not exactly conducive to throwing dinner parties as he'd squick out and/or annoy everyone, me included.
So with a new flat to baptise, Thanksgiving provides the perfect opportunity to throw the first of many parties, piss off our nosy doorwoman, and shove my face full of turkey and stuffing, banishing any forms of pasta from the evening's repast. And I can't wait for the turkey-stuffing-mayo leftover sandwiches that are part and parcel of Happy Kill an Injun day. *drools*
But in shopping for foodstuffs this morning, I have taken an irrevocable step towards becoming a stooped, sensible black shoe wearing Italian nonna. As the street market closest to my flat doesn't have butcher stalls, I made the trek over to Mercato Esquilino on the other side of the train station to buy the all important bird. Around 18 people for dinner means a rather large bird is necessary, plus all of the various side dishes and trimmings. There's no way in sweet Dante's hell that i could carry a 8.5 kilo turkey (almost 19 lbs) plus other assorted crap all the way back across the station to the flat.
I was forced to buy one of those little grocery trolleys. In a sensible red plaid pattern. No black. No rhinestones. No perverse sayings stencilled on the sides. Sensible tacky red plaid. Ick. I have never felt more like a domesticated dork; walking home i felt like everyone was trying to guess how many kids i had at home and where my husband was.
Don't ask why I was thinking this; my nearest guess was an inferiority complex induce by too little caffeine this morning.
Happy You-Give-Us-Food-We-Give-You-Syphilis-and-Smallpox Day