Nothing funny about feldspar

I don’t know if I can do it. Last year I fixed Thanksgiving dinner at my mom’s house — she came home from the hospital on Thanksgiving. Plagioclase and his mother came for Thanksgiving. My father stayed in bed and ate oatmeal because he didn’t believe it was dinnertime and I was being mean to not feed him breakfast.

This year we’re having Thanksgiving at home. My mom decided she didn’t want to come, partly because last week I visted her and we had “Thanksgiving Feast” at the nursing home with Dad, partly because she doesn’t feel up to having a “holiday” right now.

So this afternoon I shopped in two grocery stores (one for the turkey, the other for the fixings) — crowded, crowded even on Monday afternoon — and had a really hard time keeping from bursting into tears. I’m getting all shiny-eyed even now, thinking of it. As I walked through the store I thought about the stuff I used to make (or Mom used to make), and then got all practical, and didn’t buy the materials. Devilled eggs? Nope. Green beans? Olives? Nope, nope. No pickles, no white potatoes, no yeast for homemade bread.

However I did buy oysters, though only Dad and I like oyster stuffing. It gives me a connection to him and to my past. And, to be honest, it gives me my own bowl of stuffing in a family that fights for it.

We’re not going to starve, but it won’t really seem feastly. Perhaps we need to create some new traditions — the ceremonial stacking of the crap in the dining room, perhaps, or the ritualistic shaking of the tablecloth (wonder where those got to?). I might even try to wade to the place where the candles are stored… or perhaps it would be better to just go buy more.

Well, maybe I can do it after all. If only for the oyster stuffing.