Thanksgiving 2019

Once again, the New York and Tennessee cousins made the long and arduous trek to our place for Thanksgiving.

Photo credit: Izzy

This year, we borrowed a camper from our neighbors so the growing teens would have a little more space to sleep, and the adult guests slept over at my parents’ place, since Mom and Dad were out of town for the weekend.

Translation: we had plenty of space to spread out (the first night, there were three empty beds in the house!) and, best of all, I got to sleep in my own bed.

Along with the usual napping, making art, reading, and visiting, there were a few other hits. My son did his wax fireball and the kids set off a bunch of firecrackers (all the while screaming their fool heads off) that my older daughter picked up when she was in Chincoteague. A handful of us went on a windy Thanksgiving day turkey trot, and the next day most of drove into town to play Ultimate — I’d warned the regulars we were bringing a small village. My older daughter dyed her hair (again). They vacuum sealed each other in trash bags. The kids went to Costco to stock up on candy and to Funky’s to go rollerskating.

Friday morning my husband decided we ought to take advantage of all the extra helping hands and quick turn the two bushels of apples that were taking up space in the basement into sauce.

It was a smart move: it only took about twenty minutes to core and chop the apples for cooking, and then another couple hours of simmering and saucing and we were all done.

And now we don’t have that chore hanging over our heads, yay!
This gathering was the first big event that I’ve hosted in my new kitchen. It was dreamy. The fridge is HUGE and, like the inverse of a chilly Mary Poppin’s bag, even when it appeared packed to the gills, I’d somehow manage to squeeze in yet another 9×12 pan. 

Every now and then, just for the heck of it, I’d throw wide my fridge doors and bellow to no one in particular, I LOVE MY FRIDGE.

And as for the island: I am in love. Every time I run my hands over the butcher block top, my heart goes pitter pat. It was in constant, heavy usage. We ate at it, worked at it, and talked around it, often simultaneously.

There were the granola breakfasts…

And the turkey feast….

Cloving the ham.

Kate’s Heathen Green Bean Casserole (her words, not mine).

If Oven Planning were a class, I’d get a big, fat F.

The lunch line: the meal was late and blood sugars were crashing all over the place.

My plate.

And the Friday night Charcuterie Event (that I wasn’t in charge of which made it all the more delicious!)…

On Saturday morning, we had a waffle bar.

My husband had wired the island with my three waffle irons in mind (using different circuits so they don’t short out) and that morning we put them to the test.

On one end, I cooked waffles, and on the other end were the bowls of whipped cream and strawberries, assorted condiments, and a platter of bacon, and there was still room to spare.

Also, my husband’s bottle opener splurge got a serious workout.

(Only now we need a little receptacle to catch the falling bottle caps.)

And then everyone left and we scrubbed down the house and then split to our individual corners for some much needed quiet time.

This kid had an entire camper in which to decompress.

This same time, years previous: Friday fun, by a thread, writing: behind the scenes, in the sweet kitchen, the quotidian (12.1.14), nanny-sitting, Thanksgiving of 2013, the quotidian (12.3.12), Friday variety.


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