They must've slipped something in my drink at the dinner table.
Before I begin, however, I must tell you about a particularly delicious stroke of genius I had last night, culminating in a sugar-coma grin and a horribly distended abdomen. Pillsbury, in all their holiday glory, has begun offering Gingerbread cookie dough in one of those prefab refrigerated tubes that make 50's housewives roll over in their graves. In a related story, Edy's has released a special edition flavor of their disgustingly decadent ice cream: Eggnog. The cookies, when placed on an ungreased cookie sheet at 350 degrees, bake in 7 minutes (gingerbread man shapes optional). This is just enough time to get out the bowls and heat up the ice cream scoop. Sprinkle a little nutmeg and cinnamon on top of the combination and serve. I don't have to verbalize the magic of warm gooey cookie underneath a trollop of frozen dairy goodness. I was a goddess last night at the Chaos Cottage.
And I thought Oregon Chai Nog had cinched the holiday treats category.
So Thanksgiving, right?
I guess I have Pilgrim issues. I just don't buy the whole "We give you maize and hides, you give us Smallpox" celebratory vibe. But to salvage Thanksgiving from my cynical snarling, I've decided to mindfully be thankful on that day for all the blessings in my life.
I am, in general, consciously grateful and actively aware of the gifts in my life, be they people or circumstances, but I put in extra effort on Thanksgiving. The list of gratitude began when I was awakened from my bed by Mags, who was hand-delivering a ration of codeine sufficient to allow me to sit up and stand.
The stress of NaNoWriMo, the violent racking cough I've nursed for the past three weeks, and twelve copies of a 500 page proposal for the National Science Foundation had left my faithful sciatica in quite a frenzy. Wednesday night my back was in spasms and causing me such pain that I couldn't sit, stand, or lay down comfortably, and I was unfortunately out of medication for the injury. But Mags saved the day.
The codeine was enough to make me aware of the pain but not a slave to it. But I still couldn't go to the Thanksgiving Day Cambridge high school football game as expected, nor could I cram into my car and make it to Brett and Cindy's, my planned dinner destination.
By the afternoon however, the depression and self-sorriness of being laid-out alone outshined the pain of being upright so I left. I roasted a butternut squash and mashed it with clove and ginger into an ivory Belgian cast iron casserole with oak leaves painted on it that I had inherited from my grandmother and was saving for occasions such as this.
Brett and Cindy have just moved to a new house, and it was the first time I've been there. But there was no adjustment period -- I instinctively hung up my coat, got some wet kisses from the dog, delivered a plush Gund Pooh to their daughter, and made myself comfortable snapping beans in the kitchen. Then I realized that their house, wherever it is, feels like home the second you walk through the door.
This is my first Thanksgiving without my family. My parents moved to Florida in September. We used to have giant Thanksgivings at their house -- a twelve- hour affair -- and we started cooking at nine o'clock in the morning. The parade played in the sunroom, and later the football game. We'd stop peeling potatoes to watch every once in a while, but mostly the sound of it was festive enough. Ever year, my aunt got drunk and sat in the potted plants, my sister burned the bread while gabbing on the phone, my father harassed the cat with the turkey neck, and I snuck up to my room to smoke cigarettes out the window. Then I played old showtunes on the piano and everyone sang.
The holidays weren't always Hallmark-cheery, but they were predictable and therefore comforting just the same. Even when I was in my Sulking Vegetarian Wearing All Black and You Don't Understand Me phase (ages 13-26), I looked forward to Thanksgiving. But damned if I'd let you know that.
Last weekend I was watching a video I found of Thanksgiving, 1993. We had a giant whiteboard on the wall in the kitchen and I was busy with the magic markers. My dad was videotaping me drawing an extensive Thanksgiving scene, using mostly red marker, with a turkey being held at gunpoint screaming, "EAT ME!"
I'm so glad I've matured.
When Cindy asked me in September if I'd like to come to her small family gathering for Thanksgiving, I cried. I just sat there, tears streaming down my face. Her invitation moved me. I can't really explain why. Or maybe I can. Maybe it was something about realizing I was a grown up -- that I was making my own plans for a major holiday without consulting my parents. Maybe it was realizing that Boston was now truly my home -- after months of feeling like my home had been yanked out from under me when my parents sold the house I grew up in. Realizing that in this place, I now had the freedom to build my own little family. Or be adopted by a new one.
If you're going to be adopted, I highly recommend lobbying for custody under a family that has an adorable two-year-old, a big friendly dog, and a mom who makes a mean apple pie.
And nutmeg for all.
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