Little Winged Potatoes

Thanksgiving.

I am grateful for Mystery Science Theatre 3000’s Turkey Day Marathon, having a tweet favorited by Mr. Joel Hodgson, everyone finally calming down, having everything being seasoned and flavored and cooked just so, helping and having my help be valued, having my cousin offer to be a coach for me, being complimented, keeping both the peace and my sanity, keeping my mother calm and on-track instead of spinning like a whirling dervish of stuffing and blame.  I’m grateful for a quiet time and place to meditate, a big bed to stretch out in, an idea or two to warm me.   As peeved and annoyed as I was this morning, it was very easy to take it in stride and try and enter it into my memory bank.  Another imperfect holiday – the other sister made her own turkey which I was sure my mother would be upset by.  Everyone reads things into one another’s choices that I suspect aren’t there even in whispers.   Even though, let’s face it, if there is one weakness of the smorgasbord that my mother lays out for Thanksgiving lunch, it’s the turkey.  But my aunt was over and she got some seasoning and bacon grease and herbs and salt on the skin and got it in the oven rather than in the roaster which seems to steam the meat through without ever properly browning it and it turned out lovely and then the turkey my sister made, which I must admit I was not very confident in the final product when she mentioned she wanted to brine it and cook it at home and bring it over and set it next to my mother’s.  Indeed, my mother seemed downright suspicious of any other turkey-cooking process than the one she believed her own mother did, but it turned out to be equally yummy and the meat had some sort of actual flavor to it.

It was just good food.  The power of the meat, though, has had its effect and I find my eyelids increasingly heavy.  I am finding it quite hard to keep describing anything.  My father is collapsed on the couch and my mother, at six o’clock in the evening, is asleep and hopefully, will catch four hours before having to get up at 8:45 to get ready and go to work.  She’s probably still battering around up there, having run on adrenaline since early this morning to get everything done.

I could do it.  I could make this meal on my own if I needed to, but it was nice to work in tandem with my aunt and mother, to be of service, to provide the presence I try to provide, the element I try to be in the family and to see the anxiety diminish and the plates fill up.  It was nice to be a girl among others.  To play a role and not have to handle and lead. I am thankful and grateful for that.

There are muscles getting stretched that haven’t moved in ages.

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