Our apartment-floor gathering laid out on a picnic blanket was our attempt to recreate that feeling of home. Like us, most of our friends came from all over the country and had no family nearby. I made my own mom’s homemade cranberry sauce. By midday Thursday, more friends showed up with all the other fixings: stuffing made from a package, someone’s mom’s classic green-beans-with-almonds casserole. He claimed mistaking them for undercover cops, though that may’ve been a polite excuse to ease the tension.īack at our apartment with turkey in hand, we began preparations. The butcher greeted them warily until they presented their receipt. They must’ve looked suspicious, dressed in long, dark coats and shadowy hats, striding in just before the market closed. I don’t remember how, but I recall the late Wednesday night when he and my husband went to pick it up. In those early days, my husband and I (Were we even married yet?) started hosting “Actors’ Thanksgivings.” The idea began when one friend won a turkey. In my early life as a performer and writer in New York City, I remember ordering seltzer at a bar so I could indulge in hearty happy-hour snacks, and a long gone East Village Indian restaurant where a three-course dinner came in under $10. We share apartments with multiple roommates, split bills and scrounge around for cheap eats. Most of us start adulthood with almost nothing, often living in a city far from home.
