Thanks . . . And Giving

I'm sitting here at my snazzy glass-topped desk, the 70's-style lamp behind me casting a warm pool of light right where I need it, a mug of homemade cafe mocha within inches of my left hand, and I can't recall what I did for Thanksgiving.  The reason I'm wondering stems from the sheer drop in blog entries which began in November and just plain plummeted in December.  I know I turned 43 somewhere around there.  And my friend's husband died after a protracted battle with cancer, leaving us all in an emotional lurch right when seasonal celebrations are supposed to kick off.  (But he sure left us with stories to tell!  I have NO problem recollecting him!)

PHIL RECEIVING MEDS COURTESY OF HIS SISTER.

PHIL PREPARING THE LAST MEAL WE WOULD ENJOY WITH HIM.
I MAY HAVE TO HOLD ONTO THOSE GLORIOUS POUNDS IN HOMAGE!

Oh-h-h-h . . . hm-m-m-m . . . OH . . . my baby sister came to town!  Along with her fiance and two of her then three Aussie-mix dogs (she now has four).  That's where it all went fuzzy, my days and nights, my actions and reactions.

Time became a fluid thing, quicksilver-like, and moods were appropriately mercurial but in a most lovingly precious and valid way.  An intense week of cramming in joy and relationship-reclamation and serious subject matter.  And I now remember that birthdays, both of us, were celebrated with gourmet bakery cakes which made the trip from Pueblo to Murfreesboro before finally stopping at their final destinations: our stomachs!  I'm not sorry to report that nary a crumb escaped.  It's a gift us Sweigard kids have.  Or maybe it's the Hultgren blood from my ma.  Not sure.  But we don't waste a good sweet.   We possess self-control but it is restless below the surface of our consuming affection for most excellent food.  But I digress.

So-o, where was I?  Oh, yes.  Turkey Day.  The bird from Trader Joe's in Nashville ranked up there as the best we've had in probably 10 years.  And for the first time in about 10 years, my family celebrated a holiday with my little sister in our midst.  What a tremendous full-circle moment after a decade of turmoil, heartbreak and an arduous road to healing!  The simplest of tasks, from slicing and dicing for the stuffing at the kitchen island to bending our necks over the same laptop to peer at humorous Facebook posts by common friends took on a significance which far outstripped the everyday-ness of the actions themselves.  But even her presence could not totally save me from myself: I overdid it, as usual, and was so worn out by the end of the evening that I passed out on the couch while waiting to play a family board game.  A game, mind you, that I BEGGED everyone to play all afternoon!  Consequently, my slumbering form remained on said furniture for most of the night AND the turkey broth that I had elicited from the carcass of the tasty bird was left out on the stove until morning, thus rendering it unable to be salvaged.  This minor hiccup in my post-holiday menu bent my nose a few degrees but I survived.

CHOP! CHOP!

As for our shared birthday celebration, my eldest child took it upon herself to present her auntie and mother with mutually expensive gifts in the form of Coach purses!  Mine came with a double-warning from both my sibling AND my spouse to accept what was bestowed upon me without complaint as to cost and necessity; I was further ordered to make the purse switch complete before the end of the month.  I did.  And for a solid month after that, I stressed about where to set the gold-and-plum fashion accessory everywhere I went.  House, car, shopping cart, public restrooms without door hooks or toilet housing.  Ugh.  My previous purses came with price tags from Kohl's or Ross' or TJMaxx.  They consisted of a wipe-able exterior and an interior full of pockets and compartments and zippers.  Never did they sport an actual label that was instantly recognizable to others around me, though I've received numerous compliments on my purse bargains over the years.  In fact, until recently (like the past week or two) I couldn't conjure up the correct maker of my posh gift.  Coco Chanel?  Gucci?  It's all Greek/French/Italian to me!  But it IS a pretty thing, my glorified checkbook-and-mini-lotion-holder, and my daughter is inordinately pleased to see it dangling from my forearm each time I leave and enter the house.  I figure it'll last as long as it lasts.  No more.  No less.  After all, I would expect such a quality fashion house as Coach to tailor a product that is smart enough to double as handsome AND utilitarian since they've managed to last this long in the highly dog-eat-dog-model-eat-nothing world of what's classic and en vogue.

THE BAG!

(There!  That fancy bag just garnered more of a write-up in this blog than most objects in my house.  If that doesn't convey my appreciation for the gift, and affection for the daughter, then it's beyond my power.)

ROB, MODELING MY SISTER'S COACH BAG.

I asked my husband if he could recall what we did for Thanksgiving, only to find his memory as fuzzy as mine.  To me, that signals that we are far too busy and require a bit of slowing down in order to more completely ENJOY these big days . . . because I'm fairly certain that this is what makes our coveted holidays coveted.  Don't YOU agree?  I wonder how many other folks out there who celebrated the holiday have trouble recalling it?  It may be an epidemic.  I sure hope not.

What I yearn for is less hurry-hurry and more memories like the one where my brother, Kevin, sat at the kids table with us younger siblings and cousins (he was more young man at the time and we were definitely young sprouts) at our Grandma Opal's house one year.  He made the kid table THE place to be as he entertained us with his quirkiness.  One quote in particular still lives on in epic status, when he began extolling the loving virtues of a Thanksgiving perennial favorite, "Pumpkin pie is SO-O-O romantic!"  We were all in stitches over this and perpetuated the sentiment with varying degrees of exaggerated Pepe Le Pew'ness late into the evening.  To this day, I can't look at a pumpkin pie without thinking of Kevin.  THAT is sheer perfection: the way a holiday ought to be, both in the moment and in the future.  It should be reams-worth of these kinds of stories that we store in our memory banks as opposed to the often unforgiving retellings of heated moments between stressed-out revelers during their lowest-common-denominator moments.  Though to be truthful, the Easter that a certain aunt on my husband's side (who shall remain nameless, lest the mere whisper of a name bring the dragon out of slumber) burst into tears when she discovered that her nephew had chopped the celery too coarse for her dressing - she was late, I mean REALLY late, arriving and the dressing waited on her for finishing, and hoards of family were devouring Grandma Rita's rolls, so said nephew took matters into his own hands to stave off a meal mutiny.  This certain aunt tossed out ALL of the offending celery and diced a new batch to her exacting specifications.  And, yes, men, women and children all waited for her to finish making the dressing and baking the dressing.

EVIDENTLY, I MANAGED TO NOT TAKE PICTURES OF OUR ACTUAL THANKSGIVING DAY! SO, HERE'S A BIRTHDAY SHOT OF ME COOING OVER MY FUN TIDBITS FROM MY SISTER'S GIFT TO ME.

So though it's mid-January and many of us are busy trying to shed a bit of Thanksgiving and Christmas from our thighs and midsections, do me a favor, would you?  Jog your memory and come up with that ONE stellar story from your celebrations that deserves to be retold in each year yet to come.  And . . . start telling it.

(Note: My perfect recipe for cranberry sauce, wherein the entire berry is used but pureed with the help of an immersion blender to avoid the chunks and such that many dislike, also contributes to the perfection of Thanksgiving.  It works well in Greek yogurt with flax for breakfasts in the following days.  Great for bladder health, also, as cranberries contain compounds - proanthocyanidins - which keep infection-causing bacteria from adhering to the bladder wall.)