I should start this off by saying that moving to New York City was a choice and a decision. No one asked for us to move here from where we “came from.” There is actually an overwhelming discourse around why the New Yorkers didn’t want us to move here. Anyway, we’re here and we’re hosting Friendsgivings against their will. To think we once lived in suburban four-bedroom home rentals with pools and garages (sigh) and gave them up for three-story walk-ups coupled with three-mile errand walks to be completed in one long fell swoop. That sentence feels like it’s excessively aging us — we’re still sprite and have no chronic knee pain that I’m aware of amongst the thousand of my closest friends that attended the three various Friendsgivings I did this season. Humor me and close your eyes just enough to still be able to read as I recount a few symbolic anecdotes from Friendsgiving in “the best city in the world.” What’re the holidays without a little sprinkle of exaggerated pessimism?!

Place yourself on the Manhattan bound L train from Bedford with a piercing hangover from the night-morning before. You’ve just awoken at one o’clock and you are the host with the most responsibility. You’re heading to the nearest grocer selling pre-cooked Thanksgiving birds to retrieve the infamous star of the paper plate for your 20+ friends from college. Half-pound per head, they say? That equates to just over ten pounds in a warm tin carrier cardboard box contraption and a two-hand job. The day is a little too hot for November yet you’re layered up because you had every reason to believe it was officially that time for you to really start dressing. You’re sweating now as you retrace your steps, large carrier in hand, down the busy Saturday stairs of whichever Subway. For dramatic effect I’m also imagining a tote bag falling off shoulder simultaneous discomfort. Tote bag on elbow crease, turkey on turnstile, you reach for your phone to double tap and pay the forgetful $2.90 for entry. You’re so hungover not even your phone recognizes you. Use code. Tap. Pivot for tin, sideways the tin, enter. Train arrives and you find yourself in a loosely packed car with standing room only, however, despite your typical ability to blend right in as a normal looking dude, all eyes are on you. Is it the way my Uniqlo top layer is the perfect cream paired with my light brown Blundstones? Is it that I’m wearing sunglasses inside? After a brief self-assessment, you realize it is not your boots but the puddle below them drawing attention. The puddle of brown liquid dripping from your tin-cardboard carrier which can only be labeled “turkey juice.” Staring blankly ahead at the “Don’t be somebody’s subway story” sign, you understand that the only way out is through. Shoulders back, chest out.

The story can be sped up from here while the actual time on train was counting Mississippi. Turkey juice fills your corner of the car and you peep in your tote bag for your “Wet Floor/Piso Mojado” sign to no avail. Great — another L on the L. Arriving back at the Bedford station, there is a 12-minute hike standing between you and a look in the mirror to see the damage. Tin up stairs, tin through turnstile, tin getting heavy now. You place it on a bench outside with a fellow patron seated on it. Five seconds peace traded in for another shameful glance from a stranger as she gets up from the bench in defense from the now-wet bench. As you trek Brooklyn blocks, turkey juice follows you home. Turkey juice on Blundstones, on front steps, on everything. You’re starting to think that upon retrieval this was the city’s juiciest turkey, that the bird in the tin had the potential to change the tune of a hundred years of dry meat slander. It just keeps leaking. Tin up three flights and as you enter your apartment door, the carrier breaks. Hangxiety heightened and outfit ruined, the first guests will arrive in one hour with stories of similar yet lesser inconvenience.

Everything takes longer here. Every kitchen tool and ingredient for my dish was displaced throughout five blocks of small grocers and specialty stores. And although it says more about me and my affinity for cooking than it does New York, I had to buy a large mixing bowl and pie platter, and test out my oven’s accuracy to recipe-suggested cook times for the first time after living here for ten months. At the same time the above friend was waking up, I was heading to my early afternoon yoga class as an attempt to get exercise in before indulging in second helpings later that evening. A 30-minute walk there, 1-hour class, and 30-minute walk back left me with no time to waste to shower, get ready, and bake my mother’s signature Apple-Cranberry Crisp for the crew. Depending on where you come from, it can be considered a sweet side dish (the South) or an obvious dessert (the North, East, and West). Long story short: the lack of shortening, that I substituted for butter due to its absence at my local stores, failed to crisp the granola top layer and my dish was essentially liquified cranberries and apples under brown sugar rocks, which, thankfully, still tastes very good. My timing meant burning my lap as I Ubered my hot plate on a kitchen towel 25-minutes late to the grand event. As a friend worded it: “that’s just how the cranberry crunch crumbles.”

Another friend was humbled by his Uber driver rolling down all four windows to escape the smell as he entered the car with his dish. Another friend’s fried chicken never made it to the oven. There is something sinister about eating cold, breaded meat that was never warmed to begin with. To make matters even more annoying, the highlight of the night ended up being cranberry ice cubes of all things. You mean I didn’t have to anxiety-bake a dessert for the first time?! I started to ponder how for next year I can bring pretty ice, but then imagined a turkey juice-esque melted disaster. Like many things, ice does not carry well in this town. Despite the difficulties across the board, we had every single possible Thanksgiving food item in attendance - it was epic. Upon reflection I’ve realized that the reason I moved to New York has officially been separated from the reason I’ve stayed in New York. I came (on the timeline I did) because of my company’s RTO deadline. I’ll stay because of the people, the minor inconveniences of every day life that make us simply better people, and the promise that one day Ubers are not a novel, occasional treat. That one day our careers flourish beyond our wildest dreams and we can afford the extendo tables with Anthropologie scapes. That we have seasonal glassware. For now, the company remains priority and I’ve hit the potluck jackpot.

Cheers to you wherever you are. Enjoy your day.

Un beso.