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Flying With Faber: November 2014
Thanksgiving With Faber
By Stuart J. Faber
I’m a nomad. I make no apologies for my affliction to roam. Just about any time of the year, I will drop whatever I am doing, hop in my airplane (or one operated by an airline), and travel to some distant, or even nearby place. As much as I love my home and my hanger, at least once a week, my airplane and I become overwhelmed with a severe case of cabin fever–or hangar fever. There is no cure for this disease. The only way to palliate the symptoms is to go somewhere.
That being said, rarely, if ever, do I stray beyond my kitchen on Thanksgiving. I won’t even go to a restaurant for Thanksgiving. After all, the Pilgrims cooked Thanksgiving dinner at home.
I love to prepare for and cook a Thanksgiving dinner. Not only is it festive, fun and colorful, guests scream with delight as they circle our huge dining room table, which we convert into a buffet.
As guests pull up to our home, I might peek out the window and observe the smiles on their faces. The kitchen fragrances migrate to the outside like advection fog and fill the noses of the arriving crowd. Generally, we invite a busload of friends. Some folks who have little, if anything to do with me for most of the years begin calling around mid-October. They’ve heard about my Thanksgiving culinary festivals. Occasionally, we invite a few folks whom we don’t even like that much. I refer to them as Thanksgiving orphans–you know–those obnoxious or grumpy types whom everyone avoids. But at Thanksgiving, they are welcome at our table, well, some of them. Of course most of the guests are dear old friends.
Flying With Faber - November 2012
Thanksgiving with Faber
By Stuart J. Faber
I’m a nomad. I make no apologies for my condition. Just about any time of the year and at a moment’s notice, I will drop whatever I am doing, hop in my airplane (or one operated by an airline), and travel to some distant, or even nearby place. As much as I love my home, after a few days in the hanger, or at the most, a week or so, my airplane and I become inflicted with a severe case of cabin fever-or hangar fever. There is no cure for this disease. The only way to palliate the symptoms is to go somewhere.
That being said, rarely, if ever do I stray beyond my front yard on Thanksgiving. I won’t even go to a restaurant for Thanksgiving. After all, the Pilgrims cooked Thanksgiving dinner at home.
I do recall one occasion in the late sixties when my then girlfriend and I hopped an airliner and headed to Stowe, Vt. I thought it would be a romantic adventure to cook a Thanksgiving dinner in a New England log cabin. We prepared a fabulous meal. As the trip came to a conclusion, we still had over half a turkey and all the trimmings. I am obsessed with wasting food, so we packed everything and took it on the flight home-in those years, there was no preflight security. We ended up serving the turkey and trimmings to most of the passengers and some of the crew.
I love to cook a Thanksgiving dinner. It is a festive, fun and colorful time of year. Guests scream with delight as they circle our huge dining room table which we convert into a buffet. Even before they enter the house, we can observe the smiles on their faces as they pull to the curb and feel the holiday fragrances greet their noses. Generally, we invite a busload of friends. Some folks who have little, if anything to do with me for most of the year begin calling me around mid-October-they’ve heard about my Thanksgiving culinary festivals. We often invite a few folks whom we don’t even like that much. I refer to them as Thanksgiving orphans. You know-those obnoxious or grumpy types that everyone avoids. But at Thanksgiving, they are welcome at our table.