Hickory Smoked Turkey

This is Thanksgiving I. Four o’clock I ring my parents’ doorbell my dad answers wearing a red, green and blue plaid shirt. He hugs me      his cheeks warm from the outdoors takes the bowl of stuffing and says: You missed it.   Your sister choked on a piece of pineapple and your brother gave her the Heimlich. I sigh; take off my jacket as my dad brings the stuffing to my mom in the kitchen. I fail to notice he has no pants on. I am used to this. II. An hour later Dad yells: Turkey’s done.   Come get a picture. I walk out the back door to where my dad stands next to the Weber grill. He ceremoniously takes the lid off pretends to be surprised at how lovely the crisp but tender bird looks. Get closer, Stef. He lifts the turkey off the grill. I lean in and take a photo and ten more after that. This is Thanksgiving. III. I drink too much wine as I sit at the table and fill my plate. I talk loudly. I share too much. My six ye

It's an odd feeling when your neighbors move and you are left behind, if only temporarily.  It's even more uncomfortable when the building you lived in housed some of the nicest, most intelligent, eccentric and humble people you'd ever want to meet, let alone share a building with.  The fact that we are all being forced out by the new owners of our building doesn't make for a good feeling either This week, our historic carriage house is being emptied out and we are all scattering across the city into our new apartments.  While I only lived here for 1 1/2 years, these neighbors of mine left me with some fantastic memories.  Off and on for 15 years, I've lived in apartment buildings and I've never felt a real connection to any of my neighbors.  That all changed when I moved to Meade Place in 2012.  The night the lease was signed our building manager, a man well into his late 80s, poured us a glass of wine and wished us well.  The building manager's apartment