Cole Swenson's Oh
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.
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