Wilbur's First Thanksgiving

The Night Before

It's Erev Thanksgiving.  I'm sitting with a glass of wine taking a break.  My new audio/video system is blasting Lew Rawls. The tables are set in the living with china, silver, candles and flowers and looking very beautiful.  My turkey is sitting in the refrigerator and I am trying to figure out whether there is any way I can make room in there for the stuffing if I make it tonight.   This is definitely the one time of year when I wish I had one of those giant refrigerators. 

I'm thinking a lot about my mom tonight and my brother too.  I miss them a lot this time of year.  My family is so pitifully small now.  It feels very lonely up here at the top of the family tree without them. I'm holding all of them inside of me--my mom, my dad, my brother and now Steve, too.  They make me strong.

Let the Cooking Begin

No doubt Thanksgiving is a one of the most labor intensive meals to prepare an eat.  It takes a long time to make all those sides (and, god forbid, you leave one out or suggest changing the menu),  a long time to eat (second helpings are mandatory),  and a long time to digest as evidenced by those guests found in a semi comatose state stretched out on the sofas at the end of the evening.   But to me, above all,  Thanksgiving is a labor of love, a gift of goodness to my family.  Like tonight, I spent the entire evening just preparing the gravy for Thursday's bird and, good vegetarian that I am,  I'm not even planning to eat it.

This afternoon, I went to the Terminal and bought pounds of turkey necks and backs.  I  chopped them up (is there anything grosser than turkey fat) and then browned them in the oven.  Next I threw them in a pot with water and onions, herbs and carrots and simmered the stock for a couple of hours.  I strained the stock (saving all the solids for little Wilbur!) and then boiled it down to concentrate the flavor.  It took me all evening but now I have a container of gravy fixings sitting in my refrigerator ready for Thursday's main event.

Tomorrow evening, I'll prepare the stuffing, one version with sausage and one without.  Wednesday evening I'll set the table and prep the brussel sprouts and the roast vegetables. There's already applesauce and onion confit in my freezer.  I just have to remember to take them out in time, something I forgot to do one year.

I love to cook and I do it a lot but preparing Thanksgiving dinner makes me feel like a real housewife or what I imagine a  real housewife was supposed to be like in the 50's.  Remember all those movies where Mom is in the kitchen making dinner.  She's wearing high heels, a cute little dress and an apron.  Nowadays a "real housewife" is a botoxed hottie in tight pants who spends her days bitching about her girlfriends and getting treatments.  Definitely no apron.

The Real Reality

Every morning, I come downstairs, make a smoothie for my breakfast and read the New York Times, the actual hold-in-your-hand, printed newspaper. With what delight did I notice this headline in today's paper at the top of an article by Richard A. Oppel, Jr.:

Perry's Latest Attacks on Obama Depart From Reality

Hell yeah!

What's interesting is that when I checked the NYTimes online edition later in the morning the headline had been changed, the impact to my mind softened.

http://www.nytimes.com/2011/11/18/us/politics/perrys-attacks-on-obama-do-not-match-facts.html?_r=1&ref=politics

Hmm, I wonder what's behind that switch.

Let the Cooking Begin

Thanksgiving is a little over a week away and I am ready to go. I’ve decided on my menu, made a shopping list and even started to prepare a few dishes. Tonight I cored and peeled and sliced an endless number of apples for applesauce, my brother-in-law’s favorite side dish. (Isn’t Thanksgiving all about the sides?) I hope he appreciates the labor involved, a lot more than opening a jar of Motts which is what they did at the Solms’ ancestral feast. No wonder Esther and Dave didn’t think twice about driving all the way out to Yeadon and eating my mom’s Thanksgiving meal once Steve and I were married.

Thanksgiving is when I feel the most matriarchial. I take pride in the fact that I am cooking for my family, both immediate and extended. I love it when we are too many to fit into the dining room and have to set up tables in the living room. I love setting the tables the night before and using all my good china and silver. I don’t eat much on Thanksgiving night (I’ve been noshing all day) but I love to watch everyone else fill their plates and go back for more. I love staying up that night and watching a movie together. I love waking up in the morning with a bit of a hangover and opening a refrigerator packed full of leftovers. I love that the house is full—every bed slept in and sometimes even the couches have bodies stretched out on them.

I even like Sunday evening when everyone is gone and the house is so quiet. That’s when I perform my closing rituals—doing loads of laundry and emptying the dishwasher for the umpteenth time. It all feels good.

HOME

Call me a homing pigeon, a nester, a homebody, whatever, but right now to me there is truly no place like home.

I walked in the door tonight after a fabulous weekend in Miami—dancing all night with friends, eating my body weight in stone crabs, relaxing in the sun--but nowhere am I happier than to be than safe at home, ready to sleep in my own bed. With all the uncertainties I face—what to do, where to go, how to feel—being in my own space, surrounded by familiar things—is the most comforting and comfortable place to be.

Frustrating

I have discovered that it is definitely not a good idea to go into the Apple store feeling the least bit insecure or vulnerable I made that mistake this afternoon and left feeling even more stupid and scattered than before I went in. It took every ounce of mental strength not to burst in to tears at the end of my session at the so-called Genius Bar. What I really wanted to do was start screaming at the top of my lungs, “I don’t understand a fucking think you are saying.” Instead I packed up all of my devices and went on home vowing to figure all this out one way or another.

Aah, technology, I love it and hate it at the same time.

How to LIve

Part of the experience of finishing a good book, one that has brought me pleasure, is looking forward to the next one. What should it be? I have so many choices--to reread a favorite novel like Middlemarch or Portrait of a Lady, a serious volume of history, a biography of an interesting or eccentric person. It's almost like deciding what I want to eat. Am I in the mood for Chinese tonight or Mexican or maybe it's Italian I'm craving. It has to be the right taste.

I've just finished a delightful and truly charming book with a very long and somewhat cheesy title, "How to Live or A Life of Montaigne in One Question and Twenty Attempts at an Answer" by Sarah Bakewell. It's not surprising that I would be drawn to such a title at this stage of my life. I wake up every morning and sometimes stay up way too late at night pondering the question, "What I am going to do with the rest of my life?"

"How to live, etc., etc., etc." is definitely not some glib self-help book by the latest feel good guru. First of all, it's really well written and well researched but not in any way stuffy or pedantic. It tells an interesting story and is populated by many notable, often quirky characters. Montaigne, of course, is the main protagonist and he comes across as a thoughtful, delightful and extremely wise man. I prefer to call him a thinker not a philosopher Somehow philosopher seems too portentous and solemn a word to describe him.

I'm eager to get back to the source i.e. to read some of the original Essays but I think I need to get up from this table right now. I'm full and I have to digest.

In My Shoes

In a former life--the same life when I used to wear suits--I used to wear high heels. I wore them to the office during the day as part of my Professional Persona. I wore them out at night to parties. Rows of my shoe closet were dedicated to “going out to dinner shoes” as somebody once called them. That meant shoes not meant for walking or even dancing but sitting at a dinner table showing off sexy looking legs.

Well, those days are long over. Not to say that I don’t still go to parties just not very often in full regalia. (And I like to think I still have sexy looking legs.) But as of last night those shoes were still in my closet. I wasn’t ready to part with them even though there was no way I could put them on even if I had an occasion to wear them.

So last night I finally said goodby with no regret and, in fact, a great deal of satisfaction. I have found them a good home with someone who really appreciates their value and, most importantly, whose legs look fantastic wearing them. Everyone, shoes and new owner, are going to be very happy.

Where Are the Sixers

I am very upset about what’s happening or rather what’s not happening with the NBA. Truly, I was looking forward to this year’s season. Last year was a washout for me. I was too sad to go the stadium where Steve was such a fixture. I was happy to give the tickets away. But this year, Liz and Giul are back and the Solms family including me, for at least some games, would be back where we belonged at mid court. I was getting ready to learn the players’ names, read the box scores in the Daily News, be a fan again in loving homage to my husband.

Every year at the start of the season he’d say, “They’re going to be fun to watch.“ That was code for “They really stink but I’m determined to be optimistic.” Ever hopeful he was that the season would be a good one or at least an interesting one. I loved that about him. He never got too sour or cynical about the Sixers. He just enjoyed the game too much.

He would not be at all happy now about the NBA or the players. As ESPN succinctly states they “have violated the sanctity of the schedule and failed to live up to their side of the covenant: provide games for fans to watch.” What a shame.

Weather Report

It’s hard not to feel positive and upbeat when the weather is as beautiful as it is today—bright sun, clear air, perfect temperature for strolling around. So I am. . . feeling upbeat and positive. Maybe it’s because I got an unconscionable amount of sleep this weekend, staying in bed until at least 10 am on both mornings, a definite record breaker for me. I was staying in a cozy and comfortable bedroom at the house of friends in the Hudson Valley. No contractors to wake up to, no gym to rush out to to. A very welcome and much needed respite for me at this time of my life.

It’s amazing to me how volatile my moods are. One day I feel like I am pressed flat on my back on the floor, the weight of my life holding me down. Too many decisions to make, too many uncertainties to face, too many questions swirling around in my brain.

And then there’s a day like today. I feel lightweight, buoyant, ready for any challenge. Reminder to self: Remember that feeling when I’m down on the floor again.