Thanksgiving in North Carolina

I'm near Raleigh in Wake Forest; J Michael's home. Things here have been quiet with him still working hard at school until Wednesday. He was performing in a musical, called "Petite Rouge" – A Cajun version of "Little Red Riding Hood"; he played the lead role as Claude, the hungry alligator cum Big Bad Wolf. He was hilarious; of course he stole the show. I always knew he could, but this was the first time I watched him do it. He's wonderful; brilliant, beautiful.

The play was written for children, and he played to the kids in the audience as they howled with delight at his antics. His costume included a huge alligator head with big white eyes that seemed to follow you as he moved around the stage. He knew exactly how to milk the comic effects of it, and of his movable kitchen. As I watched him wring so much energy out of his tired body, I realized I was the only one in the audience who understood the stress and fatigue he was enduring: The consummate performer.

His grandmother in Ohio took a bad fall today and she's in hospital with a broken hip, and surgery is scheduled. His folks took off to Cleveland to be with her. So much for the big family dinner; it got downsized, and we're on our own. We'll be fine, but that pudding I brought with me--oh, I never told you about that, did i? Well…

Dan K. at Wallse is one of the greatest pastry chefs in town and also a friend. Last week I gave him an old tin German steamed pudding mold. He returned the mold filled with an English Treacle pudding: "This is for you to bring to your family". The thing is, one does not in these days, pack a fat, round metal container into one's baggage without some kind of explanation, or one's baggage will very likely be opened up and maybe even confiscated. Soo, I opted to hand carry the thing. You place the entire mold in simmering water for twenty minutes, unmold and serve with crème fraiche: simple enough.

But a certain tight assed lesbonic ATA security person stops me and refuses to let me bring it on board. I had already abandoned a bottle of Chateau Petrus '75 wine in my car, because they don't allow wine to be carried on board, but I thought I could get away with the pudding. Better to hand carry than have all my shit confiscated by some boob with no culinary instincts whatever. Well, you can't blame them; as I said, this thing is inside of an x-ray proof metal container, what would you have done? I am determined to not give up my pudding.

Right; so first she's scrutinizing my papers, Blondie's service dog ID, then she gets to the pudding. "I'm a chef!", pleading with her, "it is only a pudding". She shakes it, exclaiming, "It's a gel"; or, in other words, it might even blow up the whole plane? My world is starting to cave in around me; panic is settling in. This is when the fun starts. I told her I made it, so at least she knew the source. Then I started to beg: please have a heart, it's only food, a cake I baked myself. "A cake; well why didn't you say so?" Why, because dumb-ass me had to be specific, which is what any foodie would have done. "Open it up, check it out, you'll see. Please!" So she does, poking with her latex gloved hand, realizes it's edible.

"Wrap this up, you're okay, and keep your dog out of the way of the others on the line. Thus began my experience as an airport acrobat. A look at my watch told me I had around 2 minutes to get to my flight. Holding on to Blondie, my shoes still on the examining table, as was everything I had, gathering it all up. and stumbling with the pudding to get it wrapped up again.

Thank God the plane was delayed in its arrival by half an hour. As she moved on to her next victim, I yelled, "Thank you so much! Happy Thanksgiving, May Allah bless you". She wheeled around, eyes popping, mouth agape, lips moving, but no sound, while we hurried on to the gate. That look on her face was worth all the crap we had to go through.