#66: in pilgrims' footprints

Thanksgiving. I figured it's a gathering of family and friends. But I never found out its significance. My closest family is a 5-hour flight away; tickets prices peak then ... you get the drift. What then gave this year? Well, it's not everyday that someone invites me to her first festive cooking, I knew I would have good company, I had a new camera, "that other Cambridge" had been on my to-visit list for a while, and I had had enough of MD! The stars were all aligned.

The meal was a true feast. I did my part .... spilt the filling of the pumpkin pie in a hot oven and saw it burn up in seconds (leaving a not-so-pleasant odour all over the apartment), chipped a coffee mug in the sink – among other bloopers. My friend was remarkably patient and forgiving. I fear though, that I've burnt my bridges!

To complete the experience, we drove to Plymouth – where the Pilgrims (now I know what this is all about) landed and settled in circa 1620. A scaled replica of Mayflower, somewhere between a ship and a "supersized" boat, sails annually on a round-trip across the Atlantic. When moored, it is a museum there. All nice and dandy. The shocker was a tacky "Plymouth Rock". My friend narrates it more eloquently ....

".... my trip to Plymouth, to see where the Pilgrims landed .... you know, the place where they met the natives, befriended them and lived happily ever after (so the history books go). I also got to see THE Plymouth Rock. Much to my dismay, Plymouth Rock turned out to be, well, a rock. I'm not quite sure what I was expecting, but I was terribly disappointed with the unremarkable stone that had the etching "1620" on it".

Exactly. Her expression says it all.

Thanks Maria, for a thanksgiving worthy of its true sentiments. And for one of my most enjoyable weekends of the year.