Nothing funny about feldspar

I am so not ready for winter. I know, I know. Thanksgiving is at the end of November, and that’s in the winter — no matter that the calendar says it is autumn, where we are it’s winter after October and stays winter well into March.

Today it’s snowing, and it bums me out. Having cold- and exercise-induced asthma means I do not enjoy winter sports, and so all I see before me is a house that could use a good torch er, cleaning and maybe some painting, and its really hard to paint when you can’t open the windows. Which are drafty, as is the fireplace even though the damper is closed. I think I need to move (from this chair, if not this house).

But it’s the day before Thanksgiving, and I’ve got a pumpkin pie to make, so I’ll get to warm up the house with the smell of ginger and cinnamon. I made a lazy-person’s apple butter yesterday, which tastes surprisingly yummy. I’d never done such a thing before, and my track record for recipes found on the internet is spotty, but it made the house smell good. Cinnamon and brown sugar do a lot to make the day nicer.

I’m going to go play in the kitchen.

Mac wonders what Pastafarians should say for the (northern hemisphere) winter holiday season as she gets twisty over Jerry Falwell’s Friend or Foe Christmas*.

I suggested “Pasta Platitudes to you!” or “Plenty Pasta!” What do you think?

* Friend or Foe Christmas sounds like an old Rankin-Bass show, doesn’t it?

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.

Did you ever just want to take a stir-stick to your brain? I’m not talking lobotomy or anything like that — I just want to stop thinking about the crap I’m thinking about. It’s kinda like having a song stuck in your head (in my case, it’s some song by ELO which is being used by J. C. Penney(?) for its holiday advertising), but it’s worse: those thoughts that I know are bad for me that keep repeating only the awful bits like a broken record… Hey, is that a valid metaphor anymore?

Aha! Something new to obsess over. Good!