It’s 5:30 a.m. I fell asleep around midnight, after baking a carrot cake and prepping the kitchen for the hordes descending later this morning. I just took the turkey out of the fridge; it’s resting in the sink. I’m resting in the living room, wondering whether to try to sleep just a little more or stay up and piddle on the computer, since it’ll be my last shot at alone-time for a couple of days.
My eldest aunt-in-law’s fibromyalgia’s been acting up, so I volunteered to make the turkey this year. Because I am a masochist. Over dinner yesterday (we have dinner, then we have Thanksgiving, then we go shopping and have dinner again — we’re an eating-centric family) the aunts and cousins were singing the praises of turkey bags, and how much time and effort they save … I do not have a turkey bag. I barely have a notion what a turkey bag is. I’m doing the whole basting-every-twenty-minutes and praying-the-cook-time-is-right method. Living dangerously.
Listen. I hope that you like the family you’re spending time with today. I hope the food is delicious, the conversations are enjoyable, and your favorite team wins. I hope the home you’re in fits beautifully around the life you want, and there’s room at your table for everyone you want there.
I hope you have a wonderful Thanksgiving.
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