Brunch Resistance

Where do you run when the walls hem you in?
first they grow closer, warmer,
they even seem to grow fleshy--inhaling and exhaling as they contract and expand. Do I detect follicles?
Yes. Beaks of brass? I count seventeen. They move in, gleaming.


So my sister wants to have Thanksgiving dinner at a fancey hotel buffet--the kind where they keep an ice sculpture of a swan on the front table by the vegetable dip [perhaps this time it will be a turkey] and where you can have salmon or cheesecake if you want, or, if you have the palate of a three-year old, UnCrust-ables sandwiches with Smuckers grape jelly.

For somewhere near $20, a ridiculous variety of food awaits on warmers that seductively promise salmonella and afterward, you can have unlimited cups of terrible hotel coffee--[you can even taste in it the jacquard design of the lobby carpeting].
Woe to the light eater, who eats too little at a time to make her Andrew Jackson worthwhile. At least with homemade food there can be leftovers.
And the company.
For whatever reason, whenever I find myself roped into a brunch event, I feel tempted to act like an ass. Perhaps it's a disturbance brought on by all of those people, a manifestation of vibrations, multifarious conditions bringing people to a hotel brunch on a Thanksgiving when most are getting affordably inebriated in their E-Z Chairs... Was it a ruined turkey? out-of-town business, or maybe ill-timed arson?
Anyway, exposure to these places activates my usually inert hate gene, and thus randomly generates jackassery in these brunch atmospheres.
My sister always seems to forget this fact.
On another note, I believe I'll have my own little gathering and do something different. A friend recommends that I cook up a swan or something. He's sure to have a recipe.
However it will turn out, it will not be polluted by plodding or crying strangers. And there will undoubtedly be wholesome leftovers to tide me over through tenth week. oh, tenth week.