We celebrate not by roasting a Turkey, but by eating an Armenian dish called Klayhma, which is raw beef mixed with cracked wheat. We also celebrate with a lot of liquor.
Grandmother, although 86 years old, was no exception. She too enjoyed her liquor. At one point in the afternoon, she sat outside and loudly sang old gospel songs stopping intermittently to tell anyone who passed by that the "drunks could all sit right here." God, I love her.
Our Armenian Thanksgiving wasn't limited to family - we'll take anybody. My Uncle Harry, who hosted the event, invited several of his buddies (I lovingly refer to them as strays). We were happy to have them, and by mid-afternoon the pole barn was rocking with Prince and the camoflauge-clad strays were dancing under a black light.
Speaking of the black-light, it managed to humilate my husband.....
JUSTIN: Abbie, you know those UV lights that they use to show all the nasty stuff in hotel rooms?
ME: Yeah - so?
JUSTIN: Follow me.
Justin proceeds to walk into the barn and takes a seat on the coach.
JUSTIN: Do you even wash my clothes?!?!?!?!?
ME: I'd say the more important question is what the hell do you do in your clothes??
When the day came to an end, I had consumed at least a pound of cream cheese (Thanks Aunt Lucinda!) and two bottles of wine. I was thankful. My cup and the fat over my pants truely runneth over.
And!!! Cameron learned a new song: