Giving Thanks

Thanksgiving is coming, and it’s never too early to make a gratitude list. Here are a few of the many things for which I’m grateful:

(Whoops! I started to type “Things I’m grateful for,” but my brain and fingers rebelled. Why? Number ten on my list explains the temporary paralysis.)

10.) The teachers who taught me grammar. (All mistakes are my fault, not theirs.) I’m especially grateful for Sister Grace Anthony and Sister Frances Johannes of the now-defunct East Orange Catholic High School.) For fun, try Colin Falconer’s Grammar Quiz.

9.) Animal friends and would be/could be animal friends. If you haven’t seen Twenty-Two Words' gone-viral photos of a little boy napping with his puppy, here they are. (Oh, go ahead and click. You won’t be sorry.) 

8.) The Texas Hill Country is the place I go to catch my breath. Often, in the morning and evening, a purple haze rings the hills.

7.) Lemons from my tree. For the second year in a row, my little Meyer lemon tree has borne fruit, and Thanksgiving will be zestier for it.

6.) My hearing. I will never be matter-of-fact about it. Two+ years after my first cochlear implant, I’m gushingly grateful for every sound.

5.) Rain. The drought in Texas continues, but parts of the state, including Houston, have moved from severe-drought status to near normalcy. That said, it will be a long time, if ever, before I take rain for granted.

4.) Blogging friends and supporters. I’m thankful for you every day of the week, month, and year. Your posts enrich my life. Your comments on my posts make me laugh and think.

3.) Writing friends. Not all my friends are writers, but the ones who write understand there’s a time for the writing cave, and a time to come out and mingle. Two of my critique partners live in another part of the country, and we’ve never met in person. Nevertheless, because we share our first drafts, we share ourselves. My two in-town critique partners are my best pals.

2.) The joy of cooking. I do housework grudgingly and leave clothes in the dryer for days, but interesting recipes make me swoon. I’ll prepare Thanksgiving dinner without complaint. Yes, the rush-rush of multiple tasks will leave me panting, but chopping and stirring will bring moments of zen. I put dinner on the table night after night and take plenty of shortcuts, but cooking’s my therapy, and holiday cooking is therapy on steroids.

1.)  Family. I lucked out in the parents-and-siblings department and chose well husband-wise, but I don’t discount luck there, either. How much do any of us know when we say, “I do?” I, for one, didn’t anticipate the upheavals caused by relocations, job changes, and children. I’ve learned a lot. Today, my adult children are fun and interesting to be around. I’m not, however, one of those moms-of-grown-kids who swears she’d do it all over again. There’s no way I’d relive my children’s teenage years.

Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours and thanks for stopping by and reading. I'm grateful to and for you. 

It's all in the presentation

I don't think of myself as a turkey purist and have been known to buy Thanksgiving dinner from the local grocery store ready to warm and serve. One year a neighbor presented me with a wild turkey he'd shot on his family's ranch and with the help of a friend, I smoked it.

The hard to make out photo above is of turkeys hanging in the window of a boucherie on Ile St. Louis in Paris. There were six of them displayed with their heads on, tail feathers spread, and feathered wings tucked at their sides. Unlike the butterballs in the frozen food department of HEB, there was no mistaking what they had once been and in fact their distinctive characteristics had been preserved for a proud hostess to present to her guests. Imagine their delight when she carries the bird to the table in all its glory. I wonder how many of my family and friends would be thrilled about such a dramatic entrance for the Thanksgiving turkey.

Maybe I should give it a try one year. Who wants to come to my house for the holidays?!

Woman Versus Turkey. Avert Your Eyes, Please.

Today's home buyers gravitate toward kitchens that are open to the living area. Bless their hearts. Clearly they've never gone mano a mano with a Thanksgiving turkey. It's not an audience-friendly sight.

Years ago, as a clueless bride, I invited my in-laws for Thanksgiving dinner. How hard could it be?

The first sign the day wouldn't go as planned came when I couldn't wrestle the metal pincer-thingamabob out of the thawed bird. In a panic, I phoned my mom, who put my dad on the line. He talked me through the pinch-and-pull process. Too bad he didn't warn me about the neck and giblets stuffed inside the turkey. I baked them—and their paper wrappings--with the bird.

Are you wondering where Hubs was that first holiday? I'd probably sent him out to buy heavy cream or another can of pumpkin puree. Poor guy. Back then, most grocers were closed on Thanksgiving, so he would have wandered from one convenience store to another in search of the needed ingredient.

By my second year on turkey duty, I knew to fish out the neck, giblet package, and chunks of ice from the cavities and rinse and pat dry the bird. I'd also learned to slather the bird with butter, olive oil, or a mix of both. Slathered turkeys are slippery. Am I the only person who's dropped one? I'm grateful the guests watching N.F. L. football in the next room have missed my fumbles.

Because salmonella's a guest I don't want at the feast, I swipe countertops and cutting boards with diluted bleach. The blessed wall between my kitchen and family room keeps guests from passing out from the fumes.

Open-plan living requires extreme tidiness and strict organization—traits I lack. One hour into food prep, I have vegetable peelings on the counter, a trail of sugar on the floor, and cranberry-bright stains on the stovetop. Worse, chaos is catnip to pets.

The cooking smells tempt them, but my attempts to shoo them away are more alluring. Ooh! A game! Once, I lifted a cobbler from the oven and turned in time to catch a cat on the countertop, licking my last stick of butter.

I cut away the top part of the stick and rinsed the rest of it. Before you judge, let me repeat: my last stick of butter.

Tomorrow, my kitchen will be a disaster zone, but the food coming out of it should be tasty. (I've learned from my mistakes over the years. What's more, I rarely drop a turkey now that I've perfected the football hold.) Best of all, friends and family will gather in the dining room in celebration and fellowship—and the dirty pots and pans will be out of sight.

Are you a clean-as-you-go cook or a mess-maker? What's your home-design preference: open-plan or kitchen as bunker?

Happy Thanksgiving!