On Togetherness and Being Thankful (Otherwise Entitled: When This Candle Burn Out, You Gonna Die!)

 

You see what I've had to deal with for the past week?  Yes, the in-laws have been to visit, and yes, Michael's dad (that would be Grandpa Eugene) continued throughout the week to try his hand at some 'art'.  I would be quite offended about it, if it didn't keep reminding me of this:  

And this is quite good, in my opinion.  It is called 'As I Am' and 'As I Would Like to Be' by G.K. Chesterton.  Anyway, as of yesterday, all of the grandparents have left town.  And this means that the house is very quiet, and very dark, and we are all a bit depressed.  On the bright side, I guess we've got this lovely artwork to ponder.

Thanksgiving was nice, but very different than any other I've ever had -- namely because I cooked.  Can you believe I've made it all these years without roasting a turkey?  Actually, if you ask my sister it was a chicken, because it was only 10.5 pounds.  (And no, they don't really come any smaller than that -- I asked.  But how big is it supposed to be with only four grown-ups and a toddler??)  It was very good, though.  I brined it and then rubbed about twelve pounds of butter under its skin, and filled him up with onion, apple, fennel, celery, and big wads of fresh sage.  In fact, Governor stood in the kitchen and was quite disgusting with all his drool. I've never seen him do anything quite like it.  We actually had to mop it up several times so as not to have a slippery (and therefore hazardous) floor to walk on. 

Added to it were the rest of the typical Thanksgiving trappings:  mashed potatoes, stuffing (which tasted good, but did not resemble stuffing in the least -- I should have added at least two more cups of chicken broth to it), Ottolenghi's green beans with hazelnuts and such, salad, and a nice loaf of brioche.  (Yes, I realize we should have done rolls.  But what do you want from me?)  And afterward was an enormous pumpkin cheesecake.  I was quite tired after it was all said and done, and I'm thinking that if I'm cooking next year, it's going to be Mexican.  So whoever is coming over, consider yourselves warned.

Other than cooking, we spent a whole week together not doing much.  We were snowed it for two days, and by snowed in, I mean that we had about two inches on the ground, which never ceases to shut us all down indefinitely.  Seriously, it is so lame.  I grew up with a ton of snow, so it always shocks me when people -- quite literally -- abandon their cars in them middle of the road, just because there is a bit of snow.  My brother-in-law went to the airport to pick up my dad on the night of the big storm.  He left their house at 7pm and assumed he would be to the airport in no more than 45 minutes.  Meanwhile, he got there at 2:15 in the morning.  I swear.  My poor dad sat there and sat there waiting. And poor Dale sat there and sat there in his car, which was mostly turned off on I-5.  Oi.

Anyway, in all of our togetherness, we talked.  And played with Emilia, and talked some more, and played Scrabble**, and played with Emilia, and argued about politics***.  One night after Emilia had gone to bed, and we had opened up another bottle of wine, Eugene told us all about Aunt Marie's father.  He was this teeny-tiny little Italian man who lived in Brooklyn with his not so teeny-tiny wife.  Apparently, Amedio (I think this was his name) used to love to say to his wife, while sitting at the dinner table in the presence of everyone, 'As soon as this candle burn out, you gonna die!'  Now just imagine this New York/Italian accent, and this little man, and his not so little wife.  According to Michael's parents, she could have picked him up by the scruff of his neck -- and probably did for all we know.  Anyway, his wife (whose name escapes me) would laugh and laugh at him, which is precisely what I've been doing since I heard the story.  I've also been trying with all my might to get the accent right as I repeat it.  It just doesn't sound the same coming from me -- although it hasn't stopped me from trying, that you can be sure.  Suffice it to say that I have (and always have had) serious accent envy.  Ah, to be accentless is a hard life.  (Although I'll be damned if I'm going to engage in one more argument on the proper pronunciation of Long Island.) 

Another favorite was when Emilia sat playing with her chatty phone, or whatever it is called.  You know those little 'retro' toy phones we all had growing up?  Anyway, Emilia walked up to grandpa one day and said, 'It for you, grandpa!'  Grandpa held the receiver up to his ear and said, 'I told you never to call me at this number!' and hung up.  Good stuff, no?

Michael's mother on the other hand was a godsend.  She played with Emilia so that I could cook, and she danced with her, and she read to her, and all those sorts of things.  Emilia kept saying to her, 'You have pretty hair!', which made grandma laugh and laugh.  And let me tell you, it honestly broke my heart to see them go.  There we were in the living room saying goodbye, Margaret gave Emilia a big hug, put her down, and then turned around to cry.  Of course, I was sobbing as well, because that's the way I roll.  But really, it is so so hard living so very far away from our families.  But that is all I'm going to say about that because, well, just because, that's all.  But I will say this, we are so very grateful for our families (those who were here and those who were not).  And what better time than Thanksgiving to be together and to give thanks.  

**In case you were wondering 'un-fez' is not a word -- but 'neap' is.

***As it turns out, our parents are nutso when it comes to politics.  If my dad wasn't squawking about something, then Michael's dad was.  What was really funny, though, was to listen to the two of them together.  It went something like this: 'Ariana Huffington is a Jihadist!' or 'All you have to do is put a commode on a boat and there's your second home!' And so on.  No wonder we had to drink so much.