You can have Christmas. Thanksgiving is mine.
Don’t get me wrong. I still love Santa Claus, but that’s a year-round thing. The spirit of joy and generosity shouldn’t be restricted to one day a year even if that restriction does explain a lot of what’s wrong with our society.
My Thanksgiving starts around August. That’s when I begin to talk about what I’m going to make. The menu shifts and changes for months. Pie or cake? Gougeres or bread? And the eternal vegetarian question, da da dummmm…
Will there be turkey?
Don’t even think about tofurkey. We’re talking about Thanksgiving. It’s dead bird with a cornucopia of delicious plant food or just the delicious plant food. There are no imitation edibles in my kitchen. Begone, thou foul fake fowl! Ahem. Moving on.
By Halloween, I’ve narrowed it down. As soon as the calendar page turns to November, the lists start to sprout. Menus, chores, about the only thing I don’t list are guests. You’re all welcome, but it’s a first response thing due to the tiny-ness of our home.
The table is now full, sorry.
I spent the morning doing one of my very favorite things of all, the breakdown and shopping charts. Okay, I did the breakdown chart a week ago, but I copied it out today.
Nobody ever credits the up-side of neurosis, but I burst into spontaneous smiles and happy little mini-dances just thinking about all this. Yes, your dour old cynical Auntie really does. Like I said, I love Thanksgiving.
It’s backlash, of course. Years of tortured stress, anxiety and concomitantly induced ailments from gatherings filled with relatives now either dead or estranged built up a lot of karma on the plus side of the nonexistent metaphysical ledger.
Our table is filled with people I love who say nice things and bring a great dog with them. And my stuffing doesn’t come out of a box. Yay!
To end your suspense, yes, there will be turkey. I’ve already named him Stanley. I’ll bring him home on Tuesday.
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