The winds must be up to 45 miles per hour despite what the weatherman says. It's gray and dark and annoying outside. We're having roasted chicken for dinner--not one that I made, mind you. Grocery stores nowadays do all the work for you.
But for Thanksgiving I like to cook myself, so I volunteered to make the stuffing. I used a Better Homes and Garden recipe to satisfy old-fashioned tastes and I think I succeeded. It was just about one of the nicest, most relaxing holiday dinners I've enjoyed in a long time.
Dinner was served out at "the farm"--my husband's uncle's half section of land--with a newly built expansive home overlooking a large pond, swimming pool and trees in the Oklahoma red earth.
We took three of the young 'uns on a Gator
ride through the woods only to get stuck in the muddy beach by the pond just before sunset. The half-mile trek back became an adventure story that spilled out their young mouths in breathless utterances to the amused and delighted ears of parents and grandparents.
It was all good healthy fun, but as my husband's reputation as a hot rod--partly earned, partly not-- follows him, he got a very stern reaction from Uncle for putting the children in danger. Alas, the only other adult witness who knew otherwise, I held my tongue as Uncle did not seem receptive to hear any defense. (I later drew attention to his family album from winter 1983--smiling waving children, including my husband, playing atop his frozen pond. I'm told they could hear the ice creaking.) We had not been driving fast and the children and I waited on the shoreline while Gene tried to get the vehicle out, only to get it more stuck. But the little car was somewhat more submerged by the end of all the trying. He must have thought the kids and I were in it the entire time.
We'll find out at the Fourth of July party if this incident will still be viewed through the prism of his hot-rod reputation.
Glenn Reynolds has an interesting essay
on Iraq as the reverse-Vietnam, complete with cover-up only this time from the MSM instead of the military.
In Vietnam, the brass talked happy-talk, the press talked to grunts and reported that the war was going worse than we were told. But now it's Americans who are talking to
Well, I lost half my post, but it's just as well because it was mostly about something I knew little of. Perhaps I'll try again if time allows.
What I've been doing since I abandoned this post is the evening round up. Food--table; dishes--dishwasher; counters--wiped; children--played with; stories--read. The story tonight for the Divine Miss Em was Disney's princess stories--a book of three, including Cinderella, Snow White and Sleeping Beauty, condensed for young ears.
Each one ends with a version of this sentence: "Soon after, the two were married, and they lived happily ever after." I like the "soon after" part. How soon? Next week? The next day? Or the following year? There's a Barbie story called the Princess and the Pauper. The King falls in love with the Pauper and "soon after" a year touring Europe, she marries him. I think Maureen Dowd
would approve. (Thanks W.Y.)
The older I get, the faster time compresses. It's now measured in semesters, holidays, the next big family event. Tomorrow Emma resumes pre-school after a week's break. Her spring semester begins in a month. What comes after Christmas, she wants to know? Oh--New Year's, Valentine's, your birthday, Easter, then summer. And soon after, I think to myself, you'll embark on your voyage into public education.
It's like pages out of a loose leaf flying away in a stiff breeze--I can't grab one, try as I might. So I take a deep breath, enjoy the moment, try to create a successful evening for her and when she goes to bed, pour a glass of wine and enjoy the rest of the evening with her father. Good night, reader.