2000-10-08
Dear Diary:

So the highlight of this Thanksgiving dinner was a new contribution from my sister-in-law, blood and guts salad. I know, I know you're saying to yourself, "Blood and guts salad? WHERE DO I SIGN UP?"

Sorry, the fifteen of us pigged it all down, the yummy mix of cranberries, jelly and some sort of cream-coloured mousse type topping is all gone. You'll never know blood and guts salad goodness. Nyah nyah nyee nyah nyah.

(Ignore me, it's a turkey stupour mixed with way too much fine Aussie chardonnay. Believe me, it's not pretty.)

My family descended like vultures on the Thanksgiving buffet and then grabbed the best places at the table.  Yep, I've instilled wonderful survival skills, eh. As you can see from the picture, my clan were the first to sweep through the family buffet and grab a seat at the table. Years of eating my pitiful cooking have left them with finely honed survival skills, eh.

I'm soooooo proud.

My mom-in-law is a hoot at these sorts of things. She watches everyone's plate like a hawk and the second a plate is empty she's immediately trying to foist yet more food onto it. (That with the full knowledge that there were six, count 'em six, desserts waiting at the end of this meal. The woman is a heartless fiend, I tell you, a heartless fiend.)

I think the verb "waddle" best describes the familial form of locomotion as we left the table. There wasn't a pair of pants with the top button left fastened after THAT food fest.

We have little food traditions for this meal. Each year I make my rebaked potatoes and a green salad. My sister-in-law, Gis�le, makes several jellied type salads and normally my other sister-in-law, Sonya, makes her special broccoli casserole.

But things aren't normal anymore. This is the first Thanksgiving since Mike and Sonya separated, she wasn't at Thanksgiving because they're divorcing. So it fell to me to make the broccoli casserole.

Now this will sound weird, but although I have Sonya's recipe, I couldn't make her casserole. I couldn't. I knew her kids were going to be here at this Thanksgiving and it felt to me that if I made what she always made then I was saying she was easily replaceable.

I am now fretting about food politics. How weird is that? (That's a rhetorical question by the way, feel free NOT to answer, 'kay, because I have a pretty good idea how weird it is.)

The first snow, decorating the tops of the mountains like icing sprinkled on a cake. Speaking of weird (how's THAT for a segue, huh? Remember, I'm a trained professional, DON'T try this at home, boys and girls) the weather was all over the map today.

When I woke up I saw that what was rain at our elevation had left the tops of the mountains across the valley from us dusted with snow. While we were eating dinner, we had a bout of pea-sized hail and now it's back to rain.

Sometimes the leaf show can last for as long as two weeks, but all the rain this year will knock down the leaves quickly.

I'm not ready for this. I'm not ready for the change into winter that the loss of the leaves always foreshadows.

It seems there are alot of things for which I'm not ready.

You know, once upon a time I thought our little family would never change. I mean, I knew the kids would grow up and all, but I always thought that we'd all hold our marriages together. Today, warming up a broccoli casserole, I realized I'm still having a hard time accepting our family's change. Silly me.

In my head I know I can't stop change. But in my heart there are days when I wish I could.

--Marn

Old Drivel - New Drivel


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Want to delve into my sordid past?
She's mellllllllllllllting - Wednesday, Feb. 15, 2012 - Back off, Buble - Monday, Dec. 19, 2011 - Dispersed - Monday, Nov. 28, 2011 - Nothing comes for free - Monday, Nov. 21, 2011 - None of her business - Friday, Nov. 04, 2011 -


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This template is a riff on a design by the truly talented Quinn. Because I'm a html 'tard, I got alot of pity coding to modify it from Ms. Kittay, a woman who can make html roll over, beg, and bring her her slippers. The logo goodness comes from the God of Graphics, the Fuhrer of Fonts, the one, the only El Presidente. I smooch you all. The background image is part of a painting called Higher Calling by Carter Goodrich which graced the cover of the Aug. 3, 1998 issue of The New Yorker Magazine.

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�2000, 2001, 2002 Marn. This is me, dagnabbit. You be you.