Well! Since only one person put in a vote for our Thanksgiving thing, we decided to stay home and work on the house. We’re serious partiers! But then a couple of days ago my friend Mary invited us for Thanksgiving dinner, all vegetarian dishes except for the turkey and we really couldn’t pass that up. Mary is a gourmet, like a real bonafide chef. You might remember last year that she took pity on us when our Thanksgiving was aborted due to bitchiness, and the next day dropped off what she said were “some leftovers” but to us was an entire Thanksgiving dinner for four, with dessert.

She outdid herself this year. Holy crap. I love it when other people cook. This day couldn’t have been more perfect. The weather could have been colder, but there are plenty of good things to say about a Thanksgiving in which your three year old can get naked and play in the hot tub, then run outside in her short sleeved dress and bare feet to pick flowers from the garden, so my only true complaint really isn’t one.

For a few minutes there right at the beginning of the meal, I was worried we wouldn’t make it through. Picture us: the family of vegetarians, sitting at the end of the table, having just met our dinner companions. We’re drinking wine, but not enough yet, so we’re not jumping into the conversation. We’re making Seinfeld references; we’re watching our son crawl around on the expensive rug hoping he doesn’t puke.

It started out as a funny story about a goldfish thought to be dead that perked right up when plunked back into his bowl, and moved on to fish markets and how they keep fish in suspended animation and then kill them when they get to their destination. Not sparkling dinner conversation, but at least we’re not talking about hunting deer, right?

And then. The conversation takes a turn. Innocuous I thought at first, a little about delicacies in exotic places-no big deal, I’ll just try to divert my husband’s attention for a minute while they finish up their war stories about how hard it is to order food in an authentic Japanese restaurant.

Hi, Internet? Did you know that eating sea urchins is like eating boogers? And that in one particularly strange province in Japan, people line up with special forks outside the place where a guy sells fish eyeballs? And did you know that in some places you eat the octopus alive? Like, you dip it in hot miso sauce and just bite its head off. Oh, and when you order “small octopus” in an authentic Japanese restaurant, you don’t get a small serving. You get a bowl of babies.

Somehow we managed to continue to eat. Mary’s food compels you to eat, will not allow you to put the fork down, and can neutralize any offensive imagery that might fill your head when your dinner companions discuss the merits of live vs. dead conch. And I’m glad we got through that part, I really am because it was only a few tense minutes there wondering whether my family was going to get up and leave the table and then that part was over and we talked about what everyone talks about here- property values and weather.

We enjoyed ourselves so much and our kids were so well behaved that I think we might have escaped there leaving everyone with the impression that we are a perfect family with perfect kids, had BabyJ not hit his wall at the same time as his sister right before we left. Like 5 minutes before.

He really was wonderfully charming the whole time, as were both his sisters. I’d feel smug about that, except at one point someone said “you must really be doing something right Summer, your children are all amazing” and our hostess pointed out that “it’s early yet, and after all they are Summer’s children”. She’s allowed to say that, because she was my Adult Supervision when I was 16, and she Knows Things.

Plus I got drunk for the first time at her house stealing liquor from her cabinet so she owes me a snide comment or two here and there.