and did you know she’s writing a book called The Glass Age and I think she is love. Or what I would be if derivative, delectable, and sparse.
Andy and Melissa are cooking the bird right now and Kristi bunnied in to say it looks ‘gorgeous’. I say whatever, what with that oily skin and punched in anus. Also Andy can cut celery really fast. Into these neat green squares. I’m ripping bread into not-so-neat squares and resisting the urge to stick my entire arm into it. Just love that soft bowl of bread.
We got twenty people squeezing into this house at five, bringing pies and beans and white whipped things. I’m wearing my mom today and have the happy urge to deliver longwinded speeches about thanksgiving things growing in Arizona, what this little string is that ties the turkey’s leg behind it’s back, that oniony stuffing smell and the sky is so clear clean nothing at all in it.
Hope your dinner is simply this and the rest of your stay. Maybe you are like me and go long on holidays into pleasure pressing up from the bottom. That you are like me feeling simultaneously tied and light? These people wheeling around the kitchen with silverware, pots and pans, sticking their fingers into the pie, the stuffing, into the casseroles and marshmallow concoctions and still wet salad bowls and entirely unaware of the light everywhere, the staginess of complaining about how we forgot some spice and what fun it is to cook the tofurkey in the toaster oven. You laughed at me when I said ‘this is our lives’ but I think you heard the wrong word emphasized. It’s this right here in here right now. It’s light and whiney and exactly. And we don’t have enough chairs so people will probably eat on the floor, so bohemian which is another transparent trope that is also this.
So I’m thinking of you and I’m happy and hope you too are doing dumb things in the kitchen, or being men in front of the TV or maybe setting out the good plates, watching everyone bustle like monkeys. dawn