This Thursday marks only the second time that I will hold Thanksgiving dinner at my house. I decided our fairly simple menu last week and went shopping over the weekend. The turkey is defrosting nicely in the fridge and I will likely start cooking tomorrow or Wednesday.
I’m making Dad’s stuffing. The cornbread one that I love so much. And I’m trying a new pumpkin pie recipe from Paula Deen. I will have to call my dad/aunt/grandma, though, for the gravy recipe because I can never get it right.
This all sounds normal, right? Except that this will be the first Thanksgiving ever—EVER—that I will spend without my parents. Not only will we not be going anywhere, but no one is coming to us either. That's right, it will be just the five of us. This is a little weird for me. Now I know that traditions change, but there were always certain things I could count on in my life and having Thanksgiving with my folks at their house was one of them. I will quietly mourn updating old family friends about my job and the family, listening to Dad tell the story about how I once called one of my brothers a m----r f----r, and talking to my sister in law about which baby name is now on the top of the list.
On the other hand, there is an upside to staying at home: No traveling four hours round trip, no watching the kids destroy other people’s non-baby/child-proofed homes, no telling the kids for the one millionth time to use their inside voices, no need to wear nice clothes (heck, I might not even put on make up!).
And I’ve decided that we’re going to do more than just sit around, watch parades and football on TV and cook. We’re going for a walk or we’re going to play a special game or something other than eat turkey. Maybe we’ll have dinner in our PJ’s.