In thanksgiving

I didn’t have a housewarming party. I just figured if someone came over, knowing it was a new house I’d bought, they would just do the natural thing and bring something to help christen the joint: toaster, a microwave, basket hamper, a toilet brush; shit, I don’t know, what do you get for moving into a new house?

Next time I buy a house, I’m doing that registry thing. I’m putting expensive shit on there: wine club membership, cast iron set, nude housecleaning service, one where–never mind, it’s Thanksgiving cryin’ out loud.

Something happened, though, soon after moving in to my brand new purchased home, about 11 years ago now, that I’ll never forget. It took place on a Sunday. In many ways, it’s taken place many Sundays ever since.

It’s about Ron, our resident chef.

Today, he lives about an hour from my house. When the Steelers are “on” on Sunday, meaning they’re televised, he’ll come down to watch the game with me and my son. It’s not any old visit, though. Far from it. You see, the day before the game, Saturday, Ron prepares a menu. He’ll spend, shit, I don’t know, however long it takes gathering all the ingredients for the menu he’s selected. It’s west coast here, so often times the Steelers are on at 10 am or 1:00 East Coast time. That means Ron is up anywhere close to 7, packing his truck with all the ingredients: briquettes, his grill, etc.

“Motherfucker, I’ve got olive oil,” I tell him. “forks too.”

Ron doesn’t think I cook, which, compared to the kind of cooking he does almost daily, he’s absolutely right. He brings olive oil. He brings ketchup on his most recent visit, too, for the potato wedges smothered in garlic and olive oil and paprika.

“Motherfucker, I got . . .”

But that’s Ron, the guy who brings disposable bamboo plates instead of the cheap paper ones.

And doesn’t ask for a single penny.

I don’t know about you, but I don’t have many friends anymore. My posse from back home (east coast) has all but dissolved, and been reduced down to happy birthday texts and I’m sorries whenever a relative goes tits up.

I also don’t, in general, relate well to people in my hometown of Seattle. It’s too liberal for me. But I also don’t make that much of an effort if I’m being honest. I could hoop more or make a neighborhood bar my haunt and find a few like-minded moderates in the mix, I’m sure.

And others more recently have drifted because of stuff I’ve written here probably that got their panties all in a boil. I should point these were the very same friends who fancy themselves progressive, which isn’t that synonymous with tolerance and acceptance of others’ viewpoints? But like I said the other day in my two year review: how close were we in the first place if that’s what it took to banish and excommunicate a friend.

But I’m not bitter.

Ron and I are friends for over 20 years. We met at Officer Candidate School and were roommates for much of the 17 weeks we spent there. We know each other’s secrets. To this day he recalls, quite vividly, spending Christmas at my home the year he and his then wife couldn’t retreat down south to Charleston. He points to my grandmother as being one of the sweetest ladies he’s ever met. He’s right. She was.

Motherfucker can cook too:

And on that first Sunday, early into my residence in my new home, this is what crashed and sprawled across my then shiny dining table, compliments of my dear friend and our resident chef, Ron.