I live in New York City.  My family lives in Chicago.  When it comes to the holidays this year, my normally happy-to-jet-set brain got switched off in favor of the urge to do something other than my normal Thanksgiving routine.  Last year I flew in to Chicago on at 7 a.m. on Thanksgiving morning and, given my usual angst towards family gatherings and excess, did not result in the usual tryptophan-induced slumber, rather, it caused my blood to boil at temperatures hotter than Mom’s fresh mashed potatoes.

I decided to stay in Brooklyn this year.  I’d planned to volunteer at a soup kitchen, elderly home, meal packing facility, anything that was a little bit selfless.  Turns out this is one of the downfalls of living in the busiest city in America: EVERYONE wants to volunteer on the holiday.  Call after call, e-mail after e-mail was met with one of a few pre-rehearsed answers: “All of our volunteer spots are filled for this Thanksgiving by [insert name of uber-orthodox congregation].”  A friend and I even tried offering to just bring food to the facilities, but it turns out you have to cook IN one of the facilities in order to legally hand food out to those attending, therefore, you’d have to be volunteering in the first place.

Slumping and soaking up the incongruity of the situation, an idea struck me: people were still moving about the city on Thanksgiving day.  Subways didn’t shut down.  Neither did security.  Therefore, someone was working to keep the city functioning instead of having dinner with their family.  Commence Rocky-like behavior, hands over head in triumph of trumping the over-toiled system, baking, and renewed notions of joy and goodwill (all in a gray hoody, of course).

We baked mini apple pies…

The finished products

Wrapped in wax paper, tied with a string, ready for hand out-age.

We made our way along the subway to Union Square to pick up ingredients for our own late-night Thanksgiving feast passing the pies out to as many city-workers and policemen as possible, all of which met our offering with the most surprised and honest smiles I’ve ever seen.

Our own Thanksgiving feast was prepared by about seven o’clock and consisted of a baking delicacy finer than the ortolan of French lore.

I present to you… TURKEY PIZZA

It was a veritable orgy of pizza sauce, mozzarella, portabella mushrooms, diced tomatoes, and an expertly-cut, gourmet Boboli pizza crust.

Scrumptious, smart, and (especially) fiscally responsible.  And… come on… your mashed potatoes don’t hold a candle to a turkey pizza