My Thanksgiving weekend involved (not surprisingly) a fair amount of cooking. But it was the sort of cooking that (quite surprisingly) was very relaxing. I didn’t enter into the weekend feeling that way. In fact, I have to say that I wasn’t particularly looking forward to the prospect of pushing through holiday cooking. But two things changed that. A trip to the Farmer’s Market on a spectacularly sun-filled Saturday, which gave me the chance to re-unite with friends I haven’t seen in far too long. And these words from Planet Harris which parachuted into my day, shifting both my consciousness and that feeling in the pit of my stomach. Instantly:
I therefore declare it illegal, not to mention immoral, for Sunday to bring any anxiety whatsoever. Thanksgiving should be even more chilled out and anxiety free than any other days of the year except 25th December. It ought to be in the Geneva Convention.
The day just seemed to hum and glide beautifully from that point on. Music was cranked. Copious amounts of tea were made. The aromas in the house were comforting. There was no formal, must-have-turkey meal (I have an allergy to those). Instead, there was a chicken roasted for three of us, vegetarian lasagna and other roasted goodies (for our vegie girl), heaps more vegies and greens. And an apple spice cake with cream cheese filling and warm caramel sauce that everyone found room for an hour later. It was just right.
Yesterday, while my boys bonded upstairs and the sounds of their guitar-playing drifted downstairs, I made them brunch. Later in the day, when Number Two headed back to Toronto to have dinner with his older sister, Number Four and I went for a long (and the best kind of lost) walk in the woods with good friends …