2022 hasn’t been the year I thought it would be. (What year is, right?) And the latter half, especially, has been challenging and stressful and sad and just not great at all. But as we come into this week of Thanksgiving, I’m still thankful for this life.
I’m thankful for my loving family and my supportive friends.
I’m thankful for Graham. All of him. Every day.
I’m thankful for Gatsby and Annie, and their wonderful chaos, and their sweet faces.
I’m thankful for a beautiful old house that just refuses to fall down.
I’m thankful for you, kind readers, who keep coming back and reading what I put out into the world.
I’m thankful for this day, and the one that will come after, and the new chance every morning to create something good.
I’m not perfect. I’ve struggled in these last few months with some darkness I honestly didn’t know I had in me. But I know that I’ve still got so much to be thankful for, and my heart is just full of gratitude. It really, truly is.
I hope 2023 is better, but I’m still thankful for 2022 and what it’s taught me: There is always light.
I mentioned in my post on Friday that it’s been a busier week than I expected. And the truth is, it’s also been a not very good week. Bad news, coupled with busy-ness, and also not feeling great after my flu shot and COVID booster, and I’m seriously ready for a few good days with family and food. But in the meantime, Graham and I took back a little bit of control this weekend, and put up our Christmas decorations. Let’s make some happiness, y’all. Haul out the holly!
Yes, I decorated for Christmas yesterday. I have no regrets.
Let me explain.
I grew up in a household that put up Christmas décor after Thanksgiving and took it down before the new year. No judgement here. Honestly. But as I’ve made my own home, I’ve made my own schedule. And I like a Christmas tree. (To see more about my decorations, look here and here. I have lots of beautiful heirloom pieces, and whenever I decorate, my family feels close. It makes my heart smile.)
So, here we are. Our Christmas decorations are up, Thanksgiving (for the U.S.) is coming, and I’m in my cozy chair, drinking some champagne in front of the fire.
I firmly believe that champagne is appropriate for every occasion. Sad? Have a glass of champagne. Happy? Glass of champagne. Questioning humanity’s very purpose? Champagne. Putting up Christmas decorations? Well, I think you know.
I hope that the week to come is better. But in the meantime, champagne. And what’s for supper? Roasted zucchini and yellow squash with kielbasa over rice. Easy, tasty, not super unhealthy.
A quick note, I’ll be taking a break from posting in the coming week, but I’ll be back on Monday, November 29th. I’ve got a short story in the works, and plan to share some of my favorite cold weather recipes. I hope you come back to visit! And if you’re in the U.S., or you feel so inclined, I wish you a good week to come giving thanks and being grateful for the little and big things that make life wonderful.
Her hands are slick and shiny, covered in butter, and flecked with dark bits of thyme and black pepper. In front of her, a large, raw turkey, slathered and herbed and stuffed, rests in an heirloom roasting pan on a bed of onions and celery.
“We’ll tell them after dinner.”
His hands are clean, but he picks at a bit of dry skin around the nail of his pointer finger.
“There’s no possible way they’ll know, right? No way they could have figured it out?”
“I don’t see how.”
She steps away from the counter and he moves forward, lifts the roasting pan and places the turkey in the oven. Already, it looks perfect. Picture perfect, just like a Norman Rockwell painting.
“I’m worried,” she says. “I just want everyone to enjoy dinner. I don’t want drama.”
Bright sunlight peeks in through a window above the sink. The tiny kitchen feels alive with fragrance and clutter and heat. The oven’s been on for hours.
“I know,” he answers. “It’ll be fine.”
She sets a timer.
“Someone will complain that it’s dry,” she says. “Or that it’s too salty. Or not salty enough.”
“Someone could have volunteered to cook.”
“I volunteered, though, so it’s my responsibility to make sure it’s good.”
“No, I didn’t. This felt like something I could do. I like to cook.”
“This isn’t cooking,” he argues. He gestures around the kitchen, to the towering collection of pots and pans stacked on the countertops, and then to the stack of dishes already soaking in the sink. “This is forced labor.”
She looks over to the timer. She sighs. “I don’t want to argue with you,” she says.
“Then let’s not.”
“Okay, let’s not.” She checks a list she’s hung on the fridge. She’s worried over it for days, adding and then crossing out items. “I need to make the sweet potatoes. We have marshmallows, right? You bought them?”
“I don’t like marshmallows,” he says. “Who decided to add marshmallows?”
“I have no idea,” she answers, and adds “but I’m certainly not a better cook than they were.”
“You’re a great cook,” he says.
She smiles. “And that’s why you love me.”
“One of many reasons,” he says. He walks over and pecks her on the lips. “What can I help with?”
Together, they chop and roast sweet potatoes, and glaze them with maple syrup and Bourbon. She makes a green bean casserole while he sets the table. She’s crafted a special centerpiece, full of little orange and yellow pumpkins, gold ribbons, and cinnamon sticks. He positions it just so, with little tea candles all around to catch the light.
She comes into the dining room carrying a tray of crystal wine glasses, a wedding gift they only use once a year. She places one down at each setting.
“Thank you for setting the table,” she tells him. “It looks great.”
“Thanks,” he says.
She doesn’t reply.
“You did a really good job on the centerpiece,” he adds.
“Are we doing the right thing?”
He can hear an edge in her voice, a raised pitch, a thinness.
“We’ve talked about it for months,” he says. “It’s an opportunity I’m probably not going to get again. And you’re excited, too, remember?”
“I am,” she answers. “I really am.”
“The it’s the right thing,” he says, even and confident.
“But what if it’s not? What if we’re making the wrong decision?” She tightens her grip on the tray, now hanging lengthwise, covering her abdomen. Her knuckles turn bone white.
“Do you really feel that way? Or are you letting holiday stress get to you? Your family can be handful this time of year.” He crosses his arms, puts a hand up to his chin, shakes his head. “I’m sorry.”
“How could you even say that?”
“I’m sorry,” he says again.
“I’ve been agonizing over this. You know how hard it is for me.” She turns, sharp and intent, on one ankle and makes her way back to the kitchen.
From the dining room, he hears the loud clang of the tray hitting the counter. “I know,” he says, almost too quiet.
“And to bring up my family like that. How could you?”
He winces. He says nothing.
“My family’s lived here forever. No one’s ever moved away. No one. It’s just not done.”
He joins her in the kitchen, tries to catch her eye as she opens and closes drawers, pulls out one serving spoon after another.
“You know we’re close. You’ve known that from day one.” She leans over the sink, bearing her weight down on her hands, forcing herself to stay upright, focused.
“Your family will be okay. It’s a move,” he says. “It’s not a life sentence. We can always come back if we hate it.”
“You know as well as I do that you don’t want to come back.” She finally turns to face him. She sets her lips in a thin, tight line.
“That’s not fair,” he says.
“It’s true, though,” she replies, short and clipped.
“You were the one who told me to look for this job.”
“I know, but it’s not like you needed convincing.”
“You even chose the city,” he yells. He takes a breath, starts again: “You said you’ve always wanted to live in Chicago.”
“I know,” she says. “I know, you’re right.”
She checks the oven timer. The turkey’s turned golden. She starts to say how nice it’s coming along.
“I know you’re worried,” he says. “But we’ve talked about this.”
“I know. We have.” She bites a nail. “But I just feel like it’s the wrong decision.”
“You feel like that today, because it’s a holiday.”
“No, that’s not why.” She closes her eyes, opens them, knows they’ve gone hard and wide. “Don’t tell me what I think.”
“I’m not,” he says, gentle, patient. “But you were ready to go before today.”
Outside, the sun ducks behind a cloud, and against the window, they both hear the ping of tiny pinpricks of rain. The weather’s turned, but in their kitchen, things are still hot and close and heavy as a weighted blanket.
The timer sounds. He retrieves the turkey from the oven. They both watch as it steams, and she moves to cover it with foil.
“Then you haven’t been listening to me,” she whispers. There is nothing calm in that whisper.
“I have!” He raises his voice again. He doesn’t fight it this time. “I really have. I thought we were on the same page.”
“You hear what you want to hear,” she snaps.
“I hear what you tell me.”
“I tell you everything! You just don’t listen.”
They move all of the sides to the table, one after another. Warm casserole dishes, overfull gravy boats, all set up in the kind of perfect order of a magazine spread, each in its place and each place just right, with the turkey at the head, surrounded by fat sprigs of rosemary.
“You listen and filter out what doesn’t fit into what you’re thinking.”
“That’s not true,” he says.
“It is,” she counters.
“You know it’s not.” Quiet, defeated, deflated. “And if you really feel that way, I don’t know why you married me in the first place.”
“Sometimes I don’t either.”
“Do you mean that?”
She pauses, and for a moment, they both wait. Silence hangs between them.
She nods. “Yes,” she says. “Yeah, I think I do.”
He nods back, makes his choice, and answers. “Then we have other things to talk about.”
“I guess we do,” she says. She turns her back to him and walks out of the room.
He follows her out, walks into the living room and starts a fire for the evening. It roars to life. Later, after dinner, everyone will gather here to drink hot chocolate and play a board game, as they do every year. He’s always enjoyed the tradition.
Outside, a car door slams. Quiet conversation drifts up the walkway to the front door. He joins her in the foyer and plasters on a smile. It matches hers, bright and vibrant and convincing.
“I don’t understand how we got here,” she says. The smile doesn’t slip.
“I don’t understand why you don’t understand.” His mouth stays curled, like hers, tight and stretched and smooth. It shines like a scar.
This time last year, we were prepping for a big Thanksgiving with my husband’s family, and a quick trip right after to Las Vegas.
We stayed busy. We saw EVERYONE. Hugs all around.
And I got to see the Grand Canyon for the first time.
We came home exhausted.
This year? Well, we’re exhausted. We’re in the middle of self-quarantining for fourteen days, so that, if we’re still healthy and they’re still healthy and none of us has had any known COVID exposures or symptoms, we can see my parents over the holiday next week.
Just my parents. No large gatherings. I don’t even know if we’ll make the traditional dinner.
Yes, so far, the holidays feel very different this year. But, as I look forward to next week, whatever we end up doing with ourselves, I am thankful.
I’m thankful that my family is healthy, and that I’m healthy. I’m thankful to have money coming in, and food on my table, and a roof over my head, and books. I’m thankful for books, always. I’m thankful to have time to write and to rest. I’m thankful for the sun in the morning and the moon at night and for a world that just keeps turning even in the midst of chaos and crisis.
2020 hasn’t been the year I anticipated, but it’s the year I got, and I’ve tried to be as grateful and happy as possible for every little thing that’s good. And where I can, I’ve tried to make good things happen.
Which is why it’s November 18th and I’ve already put up Christmas decorations.
No regrets. It was the right choice. What can I say? This year’s been all about finding joy even in the darkest of times.
It’s been hard. It will likely continue to be hard. But I’m here and I’m healthy and my loved ones are, too. And in 2020, that’s plenty to give thanks for.