What food/writing blog would be complete without a diatribe on Thanksgiving?
For me, there’s so much stuff that’s richer than fat laden cornbread stuffing. The first thing that comes to mind is a picture of my daughter at four, dressed in her paper bag ear-of-corn costume she made at pre-school, a green construction paper plume for a hat, her long yellow hair as silks. The other thing I think of is the acorns and other Thanksgivingy stuff the kids always put on the table until one year a little white worn wiggled out of an acorn and crawled across the table. It died a squishy death in a festive holiday paper napkin and squelched that tradition.
I remember Austin’s kindergarten pagent and the awful cafeteria meal we parents stayed for and ate like it was fillet mignon because at the time, it was every bit as good as overpriced beef. I remember my mother who has cut enought oranges for ambrosia over the years to fill a mack truck, maybe two, and the food she fussed over so it would be perfect for us. I think of recipes, some passed down from her, some found in cook books, some made up that I’m happy to share with cyberspace. Most of all, I think about that intangible, un-nameable feeling about Thanksgiving that always feel like home.
If home is where the heart is, mine is grateful for this and all my blessings. Happy Thanksgiving.