I hadn’t heard of the term “Friendsgiving” until I received a Facebook event invite from my friend Danielle a couple weeks ago. Apparently, she and her roommates wanted to organize a group of us to get together and celebrate Thanksgiving in our own way. It would be a pot-luck styled meal, and everyone was encouraged to make their favorite dish, either solo or “coupled up” with someone else. I had never attempted to cook anything Thanksgiving related, but I posted that I would bring sweet potato casserole (with mini marshmallows on top!) and waited to see who else would be attending.

What I thought would be a small gathering of (mostly) girls in a tiny apartment turned into the most anticipated event pre-finals. As the Friendsgiving drew closer, the more people responded “yes” to the RSVP. It started off as an idea for maybe 15 people to get together, yet turned into a party of 50+ with the excitement and enthusiasm to match. It became clear that one apartment could not fit an event this size. We were all notified to bring our spirit and food to a large lecture hall in Bartley Hall. As days went on, the online wall began blowing up with dessert ideas and side dish claims. It seemed like everyone was going, and everyone would attempt to cook.

Danielle and her roommates, as the impeccable hostesses they were, decided that they would cook the turkeys. TWO turkeys in fact, to accommodate the large crowd they had attracted. In the days leading up to Friendsgiving, we affectionately referred to the turkeys as “The Birds.” The Birds dominated our conversations and thoughts. Moms were called, cooking instructions were googled, plans were laid. My friends were about to attempt one of the most grown up/difficult culinary tasks I could ever imagine. I was scared, but they were ready.

The day of Friendsgiving arrived. I painstakingly read the directions for my casserole at least a dozen times, even though it is a fairly simple dish. While I imagined every possible thing that could go wrong, when 55 minutes were up, my casserole came out of the oven, perfectly. This Thanksgiving thing didn’t seem so hard after all.

As I walked out the door, my phone rang. It was Danielle. Slightly panicked Danielle. The Birds weren’t ready. They weren’t even NEARLY ready. Her roommates would be late, but we had to get there because people would be arriving soon. Hopefully they could wait for the main course.

I showed up at the lecture hall after a few other people, but soon after I put my casserole down, the whole room started to fill up. Cookies and pies! Cakes and pastries! One after another came in and were lined up on a table. There were baskets of rolls next to multiple trays of stuffing. Corn, green beans, and mashed potatoes galore! People brought asparagus wrapped in bacon, real cranberry sauce not made from the can. College kids executed their grandmother’s recipes perfectly and showed up with traditional family dishes that were passed down through the generations. In a lecture hall of smiling faces and tons of hugging, it looked like a real Thanksgiving feast. Except for of course, the turkeys.

To prevent the food from getting cold, we started to eat. I was beyond impressed how good things tasted. I didn’t think college kids really knew how to cook, considering we tend to resort to mac and cheese or ramen noodles on any given week night. But the food was delicious and by the end I was in that cozy, happy food-coma. We played music, shared some Thanksgiving traditions, and wrote on a poster board all the things we were thankful for. The Birds still hadn’t arrived, so everyone got seconds and thirds. We ate almost everything, which was impressive given the massive amount of food we started with.

As people were wrapping up their feast (about an hour and a half after the event started), Danielle’s two roommates made a grand entrance, each carrying a 18-pound turkey. We all cheered as soon as they walked in the door. Even though we had finished with dessert, almost everyone had a piece of turkey to finish. It seemed like the first annual Friendsgiving was a great success. (Oh and everyone loved my casserole. So it was definitely a success! :))

Being surrounded by 50 of my peers, in a lecture hall of all places, and eating a beautiful home-cooked meal was in and of itself something to be thankful for. From Meredith reciting a Thanksgiving poem that she wrote when she was 11 and JD insisting I try his mashed potatoes, to the Orientation people breaking out into our staff dance and Danielle insisting to take pictures of everyone with their dishes, every small moment made me even more thankful for the friends I have and the positivity that surrounds me. I think every day should be Friendsgiving :)

Here’s to “The Birds” & being thankful.

I had a bad day. Scratch that. I had a horrible day. Mondays always suck but I was most definitely on the Monday struggle bus. I didn’t want any more problems. By mid day, all I wanted was a latte.

Starbucks has always equated happiness for me. Especially since the recent reintroduction of the red cups. So what better way to get rid of my sorrows, if not by drowning them in espresso?

I arrived at my favorite coffee shop at 2:15, just enough time to grab my drink, get back to campus, and sit down in my PR class approximately 10 minutes early. (I always say, if you’re not early, you’re late!). I waited in the short line, ordered my regular (tall skinny caramel latte) and wandered over to the bar to wait for my insta-happiness.

Within the short few minutes of my waiting, it became abundantly clear that the barista was also riding the Monday struggle bus. He was spilling things, dropping things, running out of coffee sleeves and grande cups. He seemed behind and flustered. It was okay. I understood. I waited, politely chatted with the woman next to me, checked my watch, scrolled through Facebook on my phone. Patiently.

Five minutes go by. The woman next to me got her latte, the several “mistos” got grabbed (none of us were sure what a “misto” was which probably explained why they sat there for so long), and a girl with very particular dietary restrictions (totally lactose intolerant but the dairy powder in the green tea frappucino mix is completely fine) received her frozen drink. Yet there I was, waiting for my very simple, humble, skinny caramel latte.

“Excuse me!” (The cashier suddenly called for everyone’s attention) “Who’s driving the Toyota?”
Sheepishly (probably with a bright red face) I raised my hand, “Me! I’m sorry, is there a problem?”
“Oh well it’s just that you’re blocking me in!” Explained a kind-faced older woman. “I figured it was someone who was waiting for a drink.” She smiled. I smiled back.
“Of course, I’m so sorry, I wanted to be in and out! I’ll move right away!” She left. I waited.

Ten more minutes go by. The barista didn’t seem to see me waiting.
“Hi!” I announced, politely. “Is there a tall skinny caramel latte coming up?” The Barista, that I mentally named AJ, looked confused.
“Um… No… Sorry, I’ll get right too it.” He continued to make a drink at a glacially slow pace.
“It’s okay, it’s just that I’m in a rush..” (Thinking of that kind old lady whom I was preventing from leaving) “But thank you! I appreciate it.” I gave him my best smile.

Well AJ didn’t seem too concerned about me blocking the old lady in. A guy named Ted got his iced chai latte that was literally the  Crayola color “desert sand,” a woman looking a houses with her real estate agent got her Americano, and the lanky 12 year old Catholic school girl, with her rolled down plaid skirt and tall brown Ugg boots (same color as Ted’s chai) got her no-whip-non-fat-double-chocolate-chip-caramel-frappucino, and yet I was still empty handed.

So Homecoming was two weekends ago. You know, that eagerly awaited weekend where all the newly graduated alums escape back to the faux-reality of college, while the current seniors attempt to forget that they’ll be the ones “coming home” next year. I wanted to write about this sooner, but that little thing called school has kept me pretty occupied lately. Free moments to write are to be cherished because they are rare haha

So why dedicate an entire blog post to Homecoming? I’m not a senior or an alum (and I don’t plan on being either, because I’m staying at college forever…), and even though I wasn’t coming back nor ignoring the fact that I would be leaving soon, that weekend meant something to me this year.

Being 21, I got to finally go to the tailgate in the main parking lot on campus, something I’ve looked forward to for 2 years now. As an underclassman, you would pass by it onto the way to the football game and hear the sounds of pure college kid happiness and just yearn for the day you could actually participate. Finally, this year I could.

Tailgating is an event in itself, a rite of passage for any college student. Cars with their trunks wide open, music blasting, grills smoking. Corn-hole bean bags flying, best friends swaying and singing, everyone just smiling and laughing. The beer is never cold, and the mimosas never seem to run out. The lazily falling leaves against that bright blue, autumn sky, you’re just happy to be alive.

Imagine a sea of plaid flannels and down-vests, tall brown boots and skinny jeans. Ray Ban sunglasses are a must, and ladies… don’t even show up without a big white bow in your hair. To get anywhere, you have to weave in and out of groups, carefully avoiding all the extended arms holding iPhones, because what good would a moment be if it weren’t selfied and Instagrammed? You can barely hear the country music over the squeals of reunited friends, and everywhere you look, there’s another American flag flying and people dancing in pick-up truck beds. It’s chaos and happiness, all rolled into one.

As I made my way from one end to the other, carefully observing all that I just described, I felt like a freshman again. I was watching all the cool upperclassmen being so stereotypically “college,” and I felt every so slightly out of place. What was I doing here?! I’m not old enough to be here! But then it hit me. I was a cool upperclassman, being so stereotypically college and loving every second. I felt old and young, all at the same time. It was part of being young, part of being free. Just hanging out in a parking lot with a bunch of your friends, not worrying about a thing, just wondering where to get another beer and if they’ll play your favorite song. These are the moments you remember when you’re older. These are the moments you remember feeling at “home.”

Maybe homecoming is about coming back, or maybe it’s just about enjoying where you are. Here’s to tailgates & being home.