Short answer, all of them! Seriously, authors have always been my idols and I've wanted to be one since I was little, still do, but am beginning to think I lack the drive and focus to actually make that a reality. For now, I will just blog and dabble in the writing. But let's get serious for a minute. Which authors would I absolutely love to have over for Thanksgiving dinner keeping in mind that my house is not that big and I can't afford to feed all of them anyway. Time to channel my inner party planner that I'm not sure really exists.
The dinner table is set and the turkey has just come out of the oven to be replaced by corn casserole and green bean casserole. I'm putting the finishing touches on the relish tray when the doorbell rings. I'm classy, so I yell to my husband Mrs. Wolowitz style to "Get the door!" After a few unintelligible greetings, Lisa Suzanne walks into my kitchen carrying a pumpkin pie.
"Can I help you with anything?" She asks setting the pie down at the end of the counter.
"No. I think I've got everything pretty under control here. You can help yourself to a drink though. We have sodas and wine in the fridge, vodka in the freezer, and assorted other liquors in the bottom of the china cabinet." I'm already two glasses of wine into my day because I need the liquid courage to be able to actually talk to my guests today.
"Okay, can I get you anything to drink?"
"No thanks," I say, holding up my red solo cup of wine. I told you I was classy, right? The doorbell rings again. I don't have to yell for my husband to answer it this time because he's on top of his game now. Unintelligible greetings ensue, then L.B. Dunbar comes into the kitchen with a casserole dish of yams topped with perfectly browned marshmallows.
"Oh, the turkey smells delicious," she gushes. "Do you need any help?"
"Nope," I say and give her my drink spiel. Lisa returns to the kitchen drink in hand. "And this is Lisa. Lisa, this is L_____." Pleasant greetings commence and L____ goes to get herself a drink as the doorbell rings again. The next guests to arrive are K.S. Haigwood with a pecan pie and D.S. Schmeckpeper with the dinner rolls. The house is starting to get noisy with extra children running around and the men watching the football pre-game. I make introductions and deliver my drink spiel again adding that we have juice and milk for the children if necessary.
The ladies start chatting about writing and their books, and I just about faint. It's one thing to see authors talking about their inspiration and stuff on Facebook and quite another to actually hear it coming from their mouths, in your kitchen. Maybe this was a horrible idea. I'm socially awkward at the best of times, and this is quite likely a recipe for disaster. I down the rest of my wine and go to make myself something stronger. Shots of tequila sound like a great idea, but I settle for a margarita. The doorbell rings as I'm finishing pouring my drink, so I answer it. Standing on my doorstep is Alexandrea Weis with a bottle of vodka and Rodney the raccoon. I'm pretty sure the kids are going to love him. I just hope he doesn't get too overwhelmed by all of them. I get over my horrible manners and invite her in out of the cold. "The other ladies are in the kitchen. Please help yourself to a drink, I already have vodka chilled in the freezer, unless you prefer to drink it warm."
I return to the kitchen to start making the gravy, I just hope it turns out good this year, I have about a fifty percent success rate at the moment. I'm much better with cream gravies, and today timing is everything. I let out a sigh of relief when my gravy starts to thicken like it's supposed to, but a new worry takes over. We are still one guest short, and the casseroles are almost finished. I don't want to start eating without her, but I also don't want the food to get cold while everyone else is here. I go to tell my husband that it's time to carve the turkey (because we carve in the kitchen and serve the pre-carved turkey on a platter in our house). On our way back to the kitchen the doorbell rings.
I actually squeal when I see Penelope Douglas with her husband and daughter, and delicious looking banana nut bread. "So, uh, can we come in?" she asks because I have once again forgotten my manners in the midst of my inner fan-girling.
"Oh, yes, of course," I say, stepping aside to let them in. "The guys are downstairs in the den and the kids are running around upstairs wreaking havoc. Feel free to help yourselves to drinks." I squeal again because THE Penelope Douglas is in my house. It is definitely time for shots of some sort, but I need to get the potatoes mashed before the timer for my casseroles goes off. After I get the potatoes mashed and in a serving bowl and some gravy in the gravy boat, the ladies start taking the food to the table for me. Next thing I know, the casseroles are finished and it's time to eat. Everyone gathers around the table and we say grace. It seems that everything came together well in the end, but I think next year I might just skip Thanksgiving.
*Note: Stephen King and J.K. Rowling were both also invited but their agents personally declined the invitations.
So there you have it, my dream Thanksgiving guest list. Who is sitting around your dream Thanksgiving table? - Katie
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