Monday morning for breakfast, Danielle made French toast and bacon. The bread for the French toast was my mom’s homemade cinnamon bread, which had traveled many miles to reach us. The eggs were from a local farm. The milk was from a Providence-based dairy. The bacon was from the same farm as the eggs.
My mom made the bread in Michigan, where it was picked up by sister’s father-in-law and driven, frozen, to Massachusetts, where he and his wife celebrated the Thanksgiving holiday with, among other family members, my sister and her husband, who had traveled from Boston. My sister then brought the bread back to her apartment in Boston, where Danielle, Sean, and I already were (in Boston), having eaten a Thanksgiving meal of our own with friends, a semi-annual event known by us as ‘Drunkfest.’ My sister joined us but forgot the bread. (On purpose?) She left the party early due to a headache and didn’t return (she gets terrible migraines), so the next day, yesterday, we stopped in to see them in the afternoon, and still I forgot about the bread—thankfully, Danielle did not.
The French toast and bacon was the perfect breakfast after the weekend. It eased us back into normal life. Sweet, homemade, local, and wholesome.
The weekend was rejuvenating, as a holiday should be. We started out with an early drive up to Boston Thursday morning, arriving before the rest of the house was awake. Megan, thankfully, heard us and came downstairs to let us in and say hello. We had coffee and made the living room Sean-Safe (poor Emily, whose house it was, came down bathrobed and pointy-haired to catch Danielle sweeping the floor).
Gradually, the rest of the house stirred and filled with visitors for the annual Drunkfest celebration. Drunkfest began when we lived down in Norfolk. We invited our friends to come for Thanksgiving, and it (d)evolved into Drunkfest: we consumed a startling amount of alcohol over the course of the weekend, and we had a terrific time. We hosted again the following year, this time in Newport, and invited a lot more people, and it was kind of insane. Last year was more like Thanksgiving than Drunkfest because Danielle was very pregnant, and also it was just us plus Nancy. Twelve people in the house for a weekend wouldn’t have been just insane, it would have been suicidal.
This year, Emily and Graham hosted, which was awesome, since we had enough to worry about with Sean. Emily and Graham are opera singers, and they are caretakers of a house in Cambridge with plenty of bedrooms for all our far-flung friends. It was also a much more potluck-y affair, since several of us are New Englanders.
We ate turducken. We drank good beer and wine, and I got a taste of the transcendental Sazerac 18-year-old straight rye. We remembered how lucky we all are to have such good friends, even if we only see them rarely.
It was a lovely Drunkfest. I hope yours was, too.