Over the last several years I have come to be the host of Thanksgiving dinners for a regular group of my friends whom I think of as “The Children.” As in “The Children are coming to dinner.” Mostly because they are all young enough to actually be my offspring, were I wacky enough to spring off, but also because, as in the case of providing the traditional Thanksgiving, I have somehow morphed into a mother figure. To be more accurate, a grandmother figure.
Four of the Children are out of town this holiday and I was remarking to Super Agent Fred (the only one who would be around) how I was looking forward to taking drugs and sleeping all day instead of cooking. Fred looked absolutely stricken and protested that he was looking forward to turkey. And gravy. And mashed potatoes. And dressing.
Of course I relented and thus wound up slinging a menu that exactly reproduced what my grannies would have knocked out 80 years ago. And it was delicious, thank you very much, so I guess I’m glad I did, but the dinner did leave behind a refrigerator full of left overs because it turns out scaling down a celebratory dinner for 10 to one for 2 does not work. I just don’t know how to make my granny’s cornbread dressing in a size smaller than what could be described as a vat. We will be dining on that fucking turkey all week. Turkey salad, Turkey Tetrazini, turkey sammiches. OK by me.
Also in other domestic news, the garden always looks sort of shaggy around this time of year. Most thing suddenly green from the rain finally starting, but also quietly revving up for the burst of flowers spring will have. The most appealing contradictions are the Australian Tea Trees, brilliant rose and pink and crimson right now. The two in the picture are about 20 years old and have taken that long to really get established and turn out such show off blooming. I see them from my bathroom window every time I go pee. That is not what the average garden planning book would consider, but I’m glad I planted them where I did.