I went to my Dad's house for Thanksgiving. Slept over Wednesday night on the fold-out futon under a tiger blanket, then woke up the next morning to coffee and clouds and the smell of things cooking. Dad is big into Thanksgiving: we have about twenty people over and spend the day dicing, basting, peeling, mashing, chopping, boiling, and rest-taking in accordance with his typed schedule. 

Ellen made pumpkin and cranberry bread. Dad made mimosas. I made "orange cups", a strange mixture of sweet potatoes, juice and unscientifically measured spices in empty orange rinds. 

Gramps with mimosa.

The cooking continued until about five in the afternoon. There was an overall smell of citrus. Every few hours, I snuck down to the den to read Robert Bolano in a big chair.

Oh--I also arranged the (water) bar. This required the skillful cutting of orange and lemon slices, the arrangement of wine glasses, etc., etc.

Ellen did the table.

Around four-thirty, guests arrived!

I returned to my apartment with two slices of pecan pie and a desire for a long nap.

1 comment:

Evander said...

Good call. It's a well known fact that pecan pie is the best pie.