And then also:
I love Thanksgiving. It is good and gratuitous and important and smells like warm. Love, love, love. So many times do I love this holiday. So much, that on this day, and only on this day, I am even known to don a turtleneck while balling dough.
Another note: My Grandma had a stroke. (She’s okay.) This is bad and horrible. My mom has been spending all her time nursing her back to health, so she calls me today to tell that I will be in charge of Thanksgiving this year; all of it.
It is okay to do joyous backflips in heels while trudging through midtown, on occasions such as these: when mom relinquishes the entire holiday to you. Granted, come Thursday, I will probably be up to my ears in cranberried things and pumpkin cheesecake goo, but, I welcome the challenge. For now, I begin my pondering: I mean, should the stuffing have sausage and sage and chestnuts, or dried cherries and chestnuts? OR BOTH. OR EVERYTHING?! Perhaps I should saute the last year of my life or perhaps weep into the bowl and bake it, perhaps there is nothing – literally nothing – more soothing/ lovely than the means and time and occasion to REALLY cook.
I can’t stinking wait.