Butterball Tales

Rain on the horizon. Lots of wind leaking into the apt. Cold. Trying to make it into
December without lighting the furnace. But, I'm not holding myself to that pledge; flagellation not part of my religion. Yeah, 'that's me in the corner..' For the first time in 15 years, or is it 20, I am not making the annual sojourn up into the Sierra with my BFF, Jane and her family. The ecstatic birth of Jane's grandson, Luca, so close to thanksgiving precipitated an audible; everyone stays in the Bay Area. While walking in Mt. View the other day, I was tossing through my memories, and recalled that my T'day initiation as an adult was spent in San Francisco with the first girlfriend and the plastic wrapped butterball. We followed the printed directions. No fear. They had a hot line for rookies like us. I would have remembered burning the turkey. Or would I? I know that we had canned jellied cranberries. To this day, I still love the crimson ridged mass (some of us have our clandestine pleasures)... The 2nd significant T'day was spent with my sister at a small apartment we were sharing. We bought a butterball, was there anything else back then, and invited some friends over. I made a couple of pies. We named the turkey after a relative, and while the house filled up with delectable scents, spices, pan drippings, roasting bird, all the familiar chords, evoking past sentiments, we dropped Joni Mitchell's 'Blue'onto the turntable, fired up whatever was available and tucked in for the evening. Tomorrow, decades later, I'll be sitting down at a Thanksgiving table, for only the 2nd or 3rd time as an adult, with my sister; some things have changed. She's a vegetarian. Organic rules the roost. Ah, but, still some things remain the same. Love for the succulent dark. A private moment the following day with jellied cranberry mashed between 2 slices of bread and a mountain of left-overs. Stay warm. Good thoughts to you and yours.