This year, we hosted Thanksgiving for Guy’s family in our studio. The days leading up to it were a happy buzz of making lists, shopping, cleaning, brining, cooking, baking, planning. The actual day blurred by. The gigantic, spatchcocked bird still managed to roast unevenly, too many side dishes sequestered us in the kitchen, Uncle Anthony sliced his finger open while carving the damn turkey. And then, suddenly, it was 9 o’clock, the studio had cleared out, and I was alone, listening to Patsy Cline and staring at a sink full of suds.
On Monday morning, we were back in the studio. All the bits and bobs and wings and things of the turkey went into a giant stockpot and boiled away until they became liquid bronze. Guy made coffee-flecked chocolate chip cookies for our tenant, as a thank you for the Thanksgiving day EMT call. Lunch was a little soup made with the leftover sweet potatoes, red curry and some coconut milk. It was all very relaxed cooking, no agenda—just what we needed.