Didn’t get up till five.
Let Murphy out. Turn on TV, wash face, brush teeth, make coffee. Let Murphy in. Maggie and I are alone this Thanksgiving Day. My kids are grown with kids of their own, and they’re off to the extended In-Laws to visit grandparents. Funny … last I looked, I was a grandparent too. But they’ll be over later. Hope I’m still awake. Maggie’s kids are down to see their dad in Virginia and changed their plans. Now they won’t be over till Friday after. I hope there’s some turkey left.
I find it a little sad. But on the other hand, there is no early morning craziness; no jockeying for breakfast positions, no bumping into one another in the kitchen, no interference from additional bodies taking up space while trying to prepare the Thanksgiving meal—no bickering no fighting, no competition for the couch to take my tryptophan nap. Today there is none of that … and I find it a little sad.
Bring pellet stove fuel in from trunk of car. It’s freezing outside at 5am and the sky is crystal clear. Stars are like diamonds set on black cloth and I’m sure the biggest brightest one is really Venus. Or maybe another. But not Mars. Mars is red. Fill stove. Start fire. Bring food in from the shed, the veggies and fruit and turkey. Maggie tells me to bring in the cinnamon rolls for breakfast. I bring them in first.
Chop! Chop! Chop! Onions and celery. Wait for cinnamon rolls and pour another mug of coffee—add Baileys. Have a cinnamon roll. Have another cinnamon roll. Share with Murphy. Maggie cooks up the sausage and wonders if we have enough. There are only two of us. It should be enough, but she doubles it anyway. Clean turkey and I am thankful for the new gooseneck faucet I installed on the kitchen sink two days ago, even though I cursed a lot putting it in. I hate plumbing. Go online to find out what time 98-Rock plays Alice’s Restaurant by Arlo Guthery. Probably noon. It’s a Thanksgiving Day tradition around my house. I set my smartphone alarm. Siri will call.
Maggie does the job I promised yesterday to do. She assembles the ingredients for the stuffing. I feel bad because I was writing this blog. I take responsibility for my promise and take over. She smiles and kisses me on the cheek and says she’s my sous chef. I mix the ingredients; add the onions and celery and sausage. I need an egg to bind the ingredients. Maggie’s standing next to me whisking an egg in a cup. She can read my mind.
Turn on Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.
Don’t know if I’ll be back to this today. Probably not. It is Thanksgiving, after all. So I will pass on my good wishes now.
Happy Thanksgiving to all my friends, and to all who are to become my friends.