The turkey is defrosting. Bags of fresh cranberries await. So do white potatoes, sweet potatoes, leeks, brussels sprouts, small white onions, and makings of both fresh and pre-made stuffing–I haven’t decided that detail yet. A half-gallon of pasteurized but non-homogenized milk awaits to help if it’s needed. What delicious coffee it makes!
Except for the stuffing box, all is strictly From Scratch.
Yes, I confess: there are marshmallows in the kitchen. I think they will end up on mashed sweet potatoes. Forgive me. Then again, I promise to prepare the sweets with cider, orange juice, and other lovely things that will make them absolutely gorgeous.
Tomorrow, bright and early, I will begin to roast the 20-lb. bird and get the “trimmings” underway. I will make creamed small onions as my grandmother did. White cream sauce à la française from scratch. (Nana studied at Le Cordon Bleu, in Paris, in her youth. True fact. To the end of her days I had to summon her to dinner with Dinner est servi.)
As to the brussels sprouts, I may sauté them with slivered almonds and cranberries. Even a touch of leek, perhaps. Another decision yet to be made.
Some former neighbors are coming to join us. She’ll bring wonderful things as always. He’ll be guaranteed a drumstick!
On the turntable, what else but Dudley Buck’s Grand Sonata in E-flat, played by Richard Morris. American music prevails for a while, till I break out the Christmas LPs.
I see no reason to hold off on some elements of Christmas till Christmas Eve. I can no longer quite understand the religious view that is dogmatic on Christmas music in Advent but vague on the Resurrection.
The orange tree I bought in Florida in 2006 was, over the summer, transferred to a very large pot and fed with a combination of excellent topsoil, rotted cow manure, perlite, a seaweed-enriched potting soil, mulch, and various other goodies. It has responded by vigorous growth. Next year, at last, I hope for a few oranges. It will be the second Christmas tree this year…sporting all the ornaments I can’t fit on the official evergreen.
We cut firewood all summer. All is safely gathered in, ere the winter storms begin.
At the moment, I write in front of a cast-iron woodstove with a cozy fire going. I sit in a commodious rural kitchen, in a folding camp chair, with a laptop upon its eponymous lap. I am grateful for family, friends, and neighbors, many of whom I hope to see soon to enjoy a simple, traditional, well-cooked, Thanksgiving dinner tomorrow. Conviviality and joy are of course de rigeur.
It’s a day that is dear to my heart, and always will be.