- Thanksgiving is a day when I get up early, before the rest of the family, in anticipation of the morning’s work to prepare tasty dishes for everyone’s palate pleasures. I don’t make anything the night before. This would go against my procrastinator personality, and could possibly upset the balance that is my “rush to get everything done at the last minute” little universe. This morning as I stood before the fire place, sipping my coffee, enjoying so many warm things on a cold morning, I was thankful for the peace and quiet. It was so still and so serene. As I set about my morning I was surprised to discover an odd feeling upon me. Something felt strangely out of place, and I quickly realized it was the lack of noise. The silence was deafening, as I had become unaccustomed to it. I was thankful once more, but this time I was thankful that the silence in my life was only transient, and that soon the nothingness would be filled with beautiful, chaotic noise. Until then, I turned on the radio and was thankful I wasn’t wiping someone’s butt at the moment, not right then anyway.
- As I went about my preparations for thanksgiving deliciousness, I wondered why I had thought it would be a good idea to leave a sink full of dishes and remnants of last night’s dinner in the pans to effectively solidify there. It must have been my way of reminding myself to be thankful for deciding to install a dishwasher when we moved here. I started with the dessert since it would need to chill for a few hours. Thanksgiving is a time for someone like myself to pretend I bake frequently instead of just buying cookies and pastries from Walmart Deli. It allows me to use ingredients that only, if ever, make there way into my home for a special holiday occasion. This was the case when I opened a can of condensed milk, something I haven’t seen since making homemade ice cream with my mom as a kid. I obviously had no memory of the can’s contents since they frightened me upon first viewing them. If I opened the milk carton to pour into my cereal and the 2% resembled this thick Elmer’s glue in the Eagle can, I would throw it out. (Notice I didn’t say pour down the sink. Much too thick.) Laugh if you must, but I never professed to be Betty Crocker. I only play her part on Thanksgiving and sometimes Christmas. Pinterest, that wench, she’s always encouraging me to try something new. This time of year allows me to learn new things like that. Condensed milk resembles mucous. Maraschino cherries stain your fingers. What the heck does it mean to “fold” an ingredient in? I don’t fold anything. Who has time for that? Note to self: cool whip does not come out of the de-wrinkle cycle of the dryer as well as a pair of well worn khakis. It really is better to just go on and fold it or whatever. Thanksgiving is a day I realize I only have one large mixing bowl and one large pot. This makes cooking several dishes in a timely manner near impossible, and makes me almost reconsider my procrastinator ways. Almost. I am quite certain I will forget my angst by Turkey Day next year.
- Thanksgiving is a time to practice your organization and storage skills, packing many different sized casserole bowls and pans into your trunk, cushioning them in a manner that will hopefully prevent spillage of cheese sauce onto your vehicle upholstery. Thanksgiving is a day that makes you thankful for how hard it is every other day of the year to get your kids out of the house. You are eternally grateful for those days when held in comparison to this day. Diaper bags and sippy cups, not so bad. Diaper bags, sippy cups, pies, traveling booster seats, waterproof bibs, cameras, pot holders with your ceramic Paula Deen pans (and that’s just the stuff you forgot and had to turn around and get), much worse. Thanksgiving is a time when you get together with extended family to consume mass quantities of carbohydrate-loaded delicacies. It’s a day I wear my new pair of jeans and sweater to look half-way descent for a change, but realize in the car that there’s a huge, washed-in stain on the breast of the sweater (breast milk no doubt, stains like a dickens), then laugh knowing no one expects any less. Somehow I’m thankful my children allow me an excuse to look haggard and not be so serious about my appearance. As we all sit around the table I am amazed by the riot of small children running about, and am tickled to realize that a couple came from my own uterus. It’s a time to be thankful for the next generation being raised up among us. I hold my tea to keep the tiny horde from knocking it over, and nervously glance at my watch timing how long it will take until they knock a glass figurine over, and secretly hope it’s not one of my children to blame, this time at least. As I glance at my signs of battle, red fingers, with the sacrifice of cherries for the pie on their tips, I realize the jeans were a bad idea feeling them press against my generous mommy tummy. It’s a time to be thankful for fleece, elastic waistband pajamas beckoning me home. Thanksgiving is a time when you realize what makes you happy and complete. As I drive past the local Walmart on my way back home I gawk at the crowd outside. I’m thankful I am in my warm car and not in a shopping frenzy. I glance in the rear view and see big eyes looking back at me, hearing the cooing, happy words trying to form. My belly is full. My heart is full. Once home, I realize the sink is still full, but that is fine too. My life is as overflowing as the sink, and it only serves to remind me of such. I pop a few antacids, and hold my babies, watching my man as he unloads the van, a hefty endeavor indeed.
That is all 🙂
Ruth young says