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.
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