I am awake. When Mother was alive, we’d have the turkey in by five am. That, obviously, would have been 35 minutes ago.  I don’t know when the chef and the cheflets will get up, but I’m okay with sitting here in the quiet of Thanksgiving morning. I’ve already had some fun; yesterday I made a batch of mashed potatoes in an experiment to see how they would fare in overnight storage and then rewarming. (One of the “take the stress out of Thanksgiving” internet tips)  I had some difficulty saving enough of them for my experiment, though. Vultures were everywhere, spoons in hand. Have they no respect for science?

I didn’t make any fancy salads this year – people are so finicky here. However, just a couple of years ago we had to chase young folks to get them to try a bite of cheesecake and this year they sneak giant pieces at every opportunity, so maybe soon they will be more accepting of jello dishes with cool whip, cream cheese, pecans and buttermilk. It’s nice to have a break from the unmolding procedure, though; it could be tense – the waiting for the complete plopping onto a plate.

Poor Shane can’t have turkey; he’ll have to make deal with a roast. One year, Mother got Sydney a little rotisserie chicken. We thought of doing that this year – putting one in her rotisserie and letting Shane watch it go round and round. I don’t know how patient he is and am not in a mood to figure it out this Thanksgiving.  It would probably be torture for him, anyway – better to get one already cooked. Did I just type all this? Shane is spoiled, isn’t he? Of course he is – it’s the Robert Grismore School of Dog Care. After all, Daddy used to order a chicken breast at Das Dutchman’s to take home for Miss Alice.

I’ve been rambling and daydreaming and it’s probably time to say Happy Thanksgiving and sign off.

Oh, to all those ancestors – those I remember and those generations back: Thanks for coming to America and all the work and enduring it entailed.