My only contribution yesterday was two pies and a bottle of wine.
Bliss, after 45+ years of being Thanksgiving central. I was always grateful I was a teacher when the official marathon of cooking began, because I’d get a half day on Wednesday. You know the drill – digging out dishes, setting the table, making pies, cleaning bathrooms, prepping rooms for overnight guests, and on, and on until you get up the next morning and really get to work.
My Thanksgiving wardrobe had to be comfortable enough for a day that started early and ended late, festive enough for the event, but not so fancy that it couldn’t survive grease splatters, and not too warm since I’d be wrestling a 15 pound turkey from oven to table, followed by dish scraping and pot washing. Sisyphus reborn.
I did feel a tinge of guilt yesterday, seeing my son gnashing his teeth over a turkey that refused to get done, and the piles of dishes, and the struggles to find enough plasticware to accommodate all those leftovers. But I sucked it up and poured myself another glass of wine, and watched grandchildren gallop through the dining room, high on sugar and the excitement of so many people.
Next year to our daughter’s, and so it will go.
The torch has been passed.