Nan was around for Thanksgiving this year.
We haven't celebrated Thanksgiving with her for many years, since she started flying south for the winter. But with my aunt's passing a couple months ago, she was grounded here for a little while.
So we got to spend some time with her. And coerced her into helping us make the stuffing for the bird.
It is her stuffing, after all.
She and Sissy toasted their little hearts out, while I cooked the salt pork and onions. Sissy had to leave when the toasting was finished so she didn't get to participate in the taste testing.
Which is the best part.
Which is the best part.
I added all the seasonings, mixed and stirred until my arms hurt. K mixed a while for me. And then we got to taste it.
I gave Nan a spoonful. She smiled.
And said, "That's good."
I loved hearing her say that.
Sissy makes fun of me for taking pictures like this. She thinks I'm a faker. She says, "Oh, I bet you're going to put that in your blog, and say something like, 'The next generation is learning how to make the stuffing.'"
Yup. I am.
Because she is.
Corralling cranberries and trying to get them into that teeny tiny opening at the top of the food processor was not easy.
They kept spilling out of my hands. Hitting the counter.
Bouncing all over the place.
Who knew cranberries bounced so much?
I chased cranberries for quite a while, trying to make the cranberry orange relish. Which is oh-so-tasty and worth the time I spent chasing cranberries.
It made me think of my mom and I wondered if she ever chased cranberries around the kitchen.
I was home alone.
The kids had gone out with friends. The Man was visiting a friend. Mom was with friends. I was home cooking. And feeling a little bit sorry for myself. Doing all the work. Alone. Thinking about mom. Feeling a wee bit weepy. Wishing I had spent more time helping her prepare some of these important meals. Sentimental and nostalgic for the past.
But then I got over it.
And gave thanks for all that I had been blessed with. Plentiful food. Memories of a wonderful childhood. Warm house. Loving family.
Nope. No more feeling sorry for myself.
Thanksgiving morning. Walking with the Man.
Beautiful sunny, crisp morning. Frosty touches everywhere. Sun shining, illuminating fallen maple leaves.
And a discarded rose on the side of the road.
Lots of spectators when the turkey comes out of the oven.
Lots of sneaky hands, stealing pieces of meat, when the turkey comes out of the oven.
Good thing I was documenting all this thievery.
Tablecloth is an old quilt I've had for close to twenty years. It's ancient. And deteriorating.
But I don't want it stuck in a box, hidden away, feeling unneeded.
What's the point to that?
It looks much better on my table than in a scruffy brown cardboard box.
Doesn't everyone do this during the Thanksgiving weekend?