Pallos Verdes, California, U.S.A

First the steam, rising from bowls of peas mixed with butter, a sign that dinner shall be served hot, the heat warming my spirit as well as my self. The feast is laid out and I feel like a Charlie in his chocolate factory, free to sample the culinary delights of another world.
The sound of laughter heralds the monarch of the feast, the 25-pound turkey, as he is laid amongst his edible court. Peas and onions, mashed potato, thick gravies oozing delightfully from the jug stand ready beside him. With a roar a electric knife is activated and cleaves through the beast like a chain saw through a forest. With the monarch defeated we fall on him with sharpened tools, stabbing and cutting to retrieve the meat below. I advance along the line of food, scooping cranberries and potato with great abandon, my plate like some miniature Pollock painting with its dark splatters of food.
It is indeed a great meal full of contradictions, morals and comparisons. I am a solitary pilgrim, alone and unsure how to handle this new and hostile country. This family have welcomed me into their midst and plied me with food and hospitality. I shall not linger too long thinking about historical similarities before I find myself evicting my family from their house and wiping out the neighborhood.
I am grateful for the food and the hospitality. This house on the other side of the country has become a oasis for me, an island in a sea of chaos. In a day or two I will awake to harsh airport lights, my spine a tangled mess from sleeping on hard government issue chairs. When this happens I shall nod my head with disgust and know there is no chance of a nice breakfast and a comfy bed that day.