A Five-Star Dinner, A No-Star Motel

     We're about to head up to the home of my sister, Mama Doc Duvalier, for the Thanksgiving holiday.  Mama Doc is Booty's mother (for more on Booty, please see the post, "Booty Does Boston") and she has two other wonderful daughters, Babu and Glinda.  Mama Doc, as her name would suggest, runs a tight ship, but she also cooks unbelievably well, unlike her much, much, much younger sister. 
        When we visit Mama Doc Duvalier, Edward and I stay at the Howard Johnson's Express Motel because Edward goes into austerity mode about our accommodations. The motel is reminiscent of a desert in that the choice of heat for the room is either dry blasting hot wind or nothing, and the amenities consist of ... nothing.  I find myself wondering what kind of freak is occupying the room next door since who in their right mind would choose to stay in this place.  Breakfast consists of day-old bagels and single containers of butter and cream cheese that must be passed around and shared among the guests.

     At Thanksgiving dinner, family tradition calls for each person to write something in magic marker on the tablecloth. These scribblings include heartfelt sentiments befitting Hallmark cards as well as Rorschach images suggesting a range of non-communicable but fearsome disorders.
     Mama Doc's cooking and the family vibe, even if there is a tiff or two, make the whole experience worth it. Edward and I return home satisfied and ready to start our diets.