The week has arrived, the time I can see my sweet family gathered around the groaning table, all sharp angled elbows and knees, girls in stiff blonde pigtails and patterned dresses, little boys with freckles and gap-toothed grins, as we admire the golden bird, mama in her cocktail apron and papa in a suit, a suit, mind you, big smiles all around, for Thanksgiving is HERE!

Someone ought to smack Norman Rockwell in the face.

No one’s Thanksgiving looks like that.

I have gone from nostalgic, warm-hearted, expectant, aggravated, downright mad, exhausted, and back again. I am hosting and the list of things to do has been long, with incessant trips to the grocery, the hardware store, the on-line stores, and still I realize I have nary a decorative pumpkin to grace the dining table.

And right about now, I don’t care.

My sister sets an impossibly high standard with her home decor. Her house would be festooned with tiny pumpkins, exquisite turkey figurines, and other things I can’t name but find beautiful…the first five minutes I am there. Then the babies arrive, and I intend to hog them, and nephews and nieces arrive, and I want to hog them, too, but they are adults now and they no longer get the appeal of putting fat cardboard puzzles together.

So, my lovely guests will only have the struggling amaryllis on the counter to gaze upon. But the little ones will know right where to find the toys, and will make a beeline for them. From where I sit right this minute I spy two toy trucks, purposely placed by my nephew, Cy, “charging,” just like the Roomba he is obsessed with. I debate moving them. He will look for them as soon as he hits the door.

There has been more to pulling the house together than I anticipated. Fortunately, I have my pal, Ruth, who was here two days in a row and worked me like a dog. She worked, too, and honestly, I would be in a weeping, wobbly mess right now if it hadn’t been for her. She should be around my table on Thursday, too, come to think of it, so grateful am I for her help and friendship.

As I write this I am in the early stages of making Chef Jean Pierre’s turkey gravy. It will take hours. But gravy is my spirit animal and I could eat it with a spoon, and have. That I can make it early and reheat it on Thanksgiving with no ill effects, well. I’m pretty grateful for him, too.
Early this morning and driving to get the last of my cooking supplies, I worked myself up into a right state. So put upon, so taken for granted, what was I thinking? But then a checkout person was kind and helpful, and I felt–begrudgingly–my mood lift a bit. Still not done with it I called an old childhood friend, and she finished lifting my mood the rest of the way.

In my snit it occurred to me I might ask for help from my dear hearts. What a concept. They are not mind-readers, after all, and then I thought of my Granny Opal, a widow who didn’t drive, spending a solid week preparing for our Thanksgivings. I always helped in the kitchen the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, but that was about it. Her table would already be set, the house warm and inviting. I honestly used to think she loved preparing for us, all of it, the cooking, the cleaning. But, did she? Who knows? I am sure no one ever asked her.

So, I sent out the word: I need someone to bring me two large bags of ice. Go get the dishes and silverware from Kathy and bring them over here. Here is what I will have around here to drink, feel free to bring whatever libation you might enjoy. Come early if you want, and I would love that. Appetizers at one. We will eat at two.

Watch out for Cy’s trucks tucked under end tables. And please leave them alone. They’re charging.