Day by Day
by Grateful Day
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On Canadian
Thanksgiving Day, Kathy wrote with questions about our US Senate and House of
Representatives. Basic ‘how does that work?’ questions.
I’d been in
the kitchen preparing a more-or-less traditional Thanksgiving Dinner in sympathy
with and support of our northern neighbor’s celebration. In the past many
years, I have managed to celebrate two annual Thanksgiving Days, with friends
in Vancouver, in Victoria and in northeastern reaches of Saskatchewan.
While
chopping ingredients for stuffing is more fun, I took time out of food prep for
a short class in Civics 101. At the end of Kathy’s questions, she wrote, “We do
not understand how your government works.” At the end of my 101 basic lesson, I
wrote, “Neither do we, Kathy. Neither do we.”
Back in the
kitchen I laid three chunks of chicken atop a bed of savory stuffing, flanked
them with carrots, a small sweet potato, split, and topped the chicken with slices
of apple, all in one baking dish. I’m cooking a meal for one person, remember.
I slid the clay casuela into the oven to slowly bake the feast, a grand meal plus
a couple days of leftovers.
Kath went on
to say that at their own Thanksgiving meal, which they had eaten a day early,
they spoke much about their father, whom she described as having one of “the
rudest and most inappropriate flapping mouths on the planet. Why did we talk
about him?”
That’s what
we do at Thanksgiving, isn’t it? We remember. The good. And the cringe-worthy.
My worst
Thanksgiving memory was a huge dinner with my step-mother’s family; my daughter
then a two-year-toddler. The only person who didn’t shun me that day was my Dad
and my gay step-brother.
My Dad took
me aside to tell me my tree had fallen. I walked into the woods along the Milk
River to show my daughter ‘my tree’, an aged cottonwood, whose branches had
sheltered me through many teen-age storms of angst. She’d finally toppled over
while reaching her branches ever closer toward the water.
My favorite
Thanksgiving Day was any Thanksgiving with family and friends following that one
day of disappointment. My daughter-in-law once told me she used to hold her
breath waiting for me to announce the time to share our thoughts of gratitude, a
family tradition I had instituted, a tradition which elicited many groans but
good stories. She felt shy about such open and sometimes mushy statements.
Well, Shea, neither did I grow up with a tradition of thankfulness.
Meal prep
and memories were interrupted when Leo heaved two bags of produce onto my patio
table. Leo shops for me. I give him my grocery list and cloth bags and wait to
see what wondrous provisions he brings. Today Leo returned with the loveliest
little aubergine and half a papaya as well as everything else on my list.
I miss
shopping for myself. Our agreement is that if an item I listed doesn’t look
good that day, Leo skips it. When he sees something wonderful that isn’t
listed, he brings it to me.
With no
impulse buys, seldom do I end up with more than I can use simply because the
oranges smelled so good or the squashes tripped me up on my way out the door. If
I forget something I want, well, that item tops off the next list.
Today I feel
rich. My refrigerator is full of vegetables. Bowls on my island counter
overflow with fruit. Smells of the chicken and dressing waft from oven to my
nose, taunting me that it soon will be ready to eat.
Eager to
share a couple of winter gardening ideas with Leo, I headed out to the back patio
to corner him where he held an open hose over the patch of kalanchoe. A
dragonfly, pure Crayola purple, swooped back and forth through the stream of
water, for a drink, for a bath. I have never ever, ever, ever seen a purple, alive,
vital, purple, dragonfly. What a fine gift.
Dinner met
my expectations. I probably gained forty-‘leven kilos. I forgot to make dessert.
But all is not lost. Ice cream was the last item on my grocery list.
Next month,
when Turkey Day rolls around, I think I’ll have a peanut-butter and jelly
sandwich.
Sondra
Ashton
HDN: Looking
out my back door
October 15,
2020\
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