The aisles at Ralph’s on Hollywood Boulevard and Western were crowed with frantic folks shopping for last minute table fare. I can’t say that I saw any carts heaving with groceries. A lot of thought seems to go into which of the spared items will make it into the basket when Ramen Noodles won’t do.
The liquor isle was very popular where many reached for the big jugs.
I opted for a few items at self-checkout also:
A box of stuffing, celery, chestnuts, whole chicken and simple bottle of Pinot Grigio.
I put it all together in one dish, dining for one, and call it a day. With the table set, there’s a knock at the door. My neighbor, Zenovia, who lives a couple of doors down from my subleased studio reminded me of my distinct invitation to Thanksgiving dinner at her place. She’s not taking no for an answer. So I throw some water on my face to join the festivities á la multiculturel with some colorful folks in the business. Predictably, the dialogue dwindles from seemingly friendly to self-consumed pathos. For some reason the line, Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn, is running through my head. Until I manage to exhale and shut the door behind me.
Happy Thanksgiving, Hollywood