So instead of a lonely and bitter Thanksgiving, for two days I was immersed in carb-heaven in the suburbs of Houston thanks to the hospitality of the Carrubbas after being invited by Paul, a friend from journalism school days.
High points of Thanksgiving dinner included the triple-whammy-dessert of pumpkin pie, home made chocolate cake courtesy Paul’s dad and chocolate pecan pie, the combination of which, I’ll admit, nearly broke me due to the Vodka sodas and Margaritas already swilling inside me.
The paternal side of the family’s Sicilian roots lent an Italian vibe to the proceedings, ably assisted by Uncle Sparky’s stories including reminiscences of the Mafia in Cleveland’s Little Italy from where that side of the family heralds.
After a sleeping like a Viking post banquet, Friday morning couldn’t have started better: drinking coffee and munching on bagels and pizzelles–traditional Italian waffle cookies–while watching one of John Cusack’s finest performances in the 1997 American comedy “Grosse Pointe Blank.”
That day ended with possibly the finest burger I’ve ever eaten at Rockwell Tavern and Grill in a nearby strip mall–proving one doesn’t have to frequent fancy places to have things done properly–and chased down with ginger whiskeys at Kilburn’s (in which, rather surprisingly, paintings of rural England and London hung on the walls), listening to Paul’s surprisingly in-depth knowledge about Theodore Roosevelt and his Rough Riders.
Great food, great conversation and great company. Not much more you could ask for at Thanksgiving.