Bring us the Figgy Pudding
When we moved to Georgia, for the first time in sixteen years, we were able to go to my Mom's for Thanksgiving. Honestly, I loved that too. I love being at my growing-up home with all my brothers and all the loudness and all the familiarity that entails. It's home. I will always love it. However, after over a decade of being in charge of Thanksgiving, there are things that weren't the way I would do them, obviously. I no longer was in charge of the meal, or even most of the meal. My brothers and I each contribute a dish or two, but my Mom still does the bulk of the work (I imagine she feels about it much the same way I do. We're clones in more than just looks.).
This year, however, we are not traveling home, either north or south, for Thanksgiving again. Having traveled the two years previous, it is our turn to hold the church down while the rest of the staff runs amok across the nation. I've been pretty excited about having a few days to lie low, sleep in, and wear jammies until noon. I've been more excited about once again being in charge of my favorite dishes in the kitchen. Today, Hunky's parents arrived for a few days stay, and an early Thanksgiving celebration.
I browned sausage and tore bread.
I diced onions and apples.
I soaked herbs in butter.
I mixed cheese and broccoli and rice and cooked it until it bubbled and browned.
Tomorrow I will chop jalapenos and zest limes.
I will boil cranberries until they swell and burst.
I will snap green beans and stuff birds and season pumpkin filling and bake and roast and boil and baste.
I had forgotten how much it means to me to bless others with the bounty we have been given. It's Thanksgiving season in my home, and I plan to squeeze the most love and joy out of it I possibly can.