I recently spent a pseudo-psychedelic marathon watching the first season of "The French Chef" with Julia Child and won't soon forget it.
In the "To Roast A Turkey" episode, there's a moment where she splays the raw, exposed turkey toward the camera before she plops it into a bowl to be stuffed proclaiming, "This is going to be a bit undignified!"
A Thanksgiving prophesy.
For all of its inherent warmth and glory, this holiday can't always escape its moments of dashed hope. Half-baked turkey ripped from the oven and strewn out the front door into the falling snow?!
Done.
By a Canadian!
Wish I'd been there.
(I'm in the Calvin Trillin camp when it comes to turkey.)
Still, I'm a believer in the day.
Woke up early this morning and ran through hushed, anticipatory neighborhoods hearing and smelling preparations getting underway. And I did think about gratitude: for laughing to tears with my boy in the dark last night, for my warm and true husband, for my big, loving, imperfect family, for my beautiful mother and effervescent father. And for my friends.
Imperfection is a virtue. Love is all there is. Happy Thanksgiving.
