For the fifth time in a row, I am packing Thanksgiving in a suitcase and taking it to where others reside (04: New York; 05: Chicago; 06: Chicago; 07: D.C.; 08: DC). The humor is not lost on me: I am in all these years not only the principal cook, but pretty much the only cook. I take Thanksgiving to the homes of people who are not equipped to handle the burden of all that food preparation. At the most basic level, it means there isn’t even a decent knife on the premises.
Each time, I began fretting earlier about the enormity of this responsibility. This year, I’ve been tossing ideas and lists around for many nights (this is the stuff of sleepless hours). I blame the increased time it takes me to coordinate this on my progressing age. Ten years ago, I laughed at people who started laying aside things to take on a trip in advance of the trip. That was ten years ago.
As I wished my office colleague a good holiday, and she wished the same to me, we paused for a while to consider this ever intriguing force called “getting older.” At the end, before she waived a cheery good bye, she said – well, the nice thing about aging is that there are so many of us doing it.
And because I am getting to that age where an espresso in the afternoon is a solid must, I took a moment in between classes to pause for one here, by the lake that’s slowly freezing over. A last crack, an open seam and then it's a sheet of ice. For months.
Happy week of Thanksgiving, from Wisconsin.