Right now it is sunny and the hoarfrost is insane on the deck outside. I spent Thanksgiving with my parents in Boston, down to our original nuclear family of three (my ex was with our daughter, having visited our son).
Thanksgiving, for a number of reasons (actually, a diverse number of allergies and my mother's rock-solid conviction that cooking is not fun, even if others might demur), is a restaurant holiday. We ate at Legal Seafood (garlic shrimp to die for) and had an excellent time. We returned to their apartment and observed a marathon of CSI, which is pretty good. The day my parents and I met my longest-running friend Pat, whom I met in 8th grade back when we used stick pens to write in cuneiform on our papyrus... at Chang's, and ate more and it was good.
I try (I really do, it's one of the cognitive therapy things to do for depression) to keep aware of my gratitude for stuff most of the time. From my (screaming meemies) reaction to reading a review of Slumdog Millionaire I seem to be very grateful for my hands and eyes. Right now, I am glad not to have a mortgage (despite taxes AGAIN!!). Things could be better, sure, but they are pretty good (and can you tell I have been taking my medication?). For further reflection, let me offer you Mark Morford's superbly written honesty.
All of us are healthy and we all had food on the table and roofs over our heads, and although I did drink too much on Wednesday night I didn't feel too bad the next day.
I have two community organizers staying here. They are literate, funny, and have strong liberal opinions. They like beer. I like beer, but it makes me horribly drunk so I have had a number of bottles of interesting beer hanging around for a year or so, waiting for enough people to help me drink them. We gave several a thoughtful appraisal. While drinking Insanity and Arrogant Bastard and something with a Kodiak bear on the label I made cheesecake (a caramel-sauce-free version of this (I went crazy in the supermarket; they had gluten-free lemon snaps next to the GF gingersnaps and I just mixed them, with abandon, and it was delicious. It turns out my father is having an unexpected turn to the lemon-flavored side of the Force the same way I am and he was most appreciative. Go me!) and participated in a fine argument about the existence of God. I remarked that I was lucky the cake wasn't leavened, because I kept having to stop and perorate and wave my hands a lot in between adding ingredients and Rob had an epiphany about why his cornbread is sometimes flat
**********you can't add wet ingredients to dry--where dry includes baking powder or soda--very long before baking or the CO2 goes away*********.
You don't get as many drunken epiphanies as I'd like in these trying times. But sometimes the spark comes through.
And the cheesecake is delicious.
In the morning, Marten was hoping I would give him a splash of milk and, in a fit of either boredom of terrifying genius, he bit a mini-carton of Little Milk and got his wish. The carpet here is already 20+ years old and tinged with the arterial blood of a doomed chipmunk but it seemed ominous. What will he do next?