Thanksgiving has to be one of my most favorite holidays. Even though it was a week ago, I’m still dreaming of the sausage stuffing made by my friend, Holly. The delicious smell of roasted fingerling potatoes and Brussels sprouts with garlic and rosemary still lingers in my kitchen. The turkey…oh, the turkey! Pieced out and slow-roasted to a golden brown – pure heaven! We also enjoyed a boozy version of cranberry relish spiked with vodka and Grand Mariner, and a lovely kale caesar salad that has become a specialty of my friend, Pat.
The table was set with my great grandmother’s china.
I’m a list-maker. Phew, I said it. It’s out there. I feel so much better now. Yes, I make lists. I come from a long line of list-makers. My mother makes lists, my grandmother makes lists, my aunts make them…you get it. Lists are in our blood. Before I knew it, I was addicted to the satisfaction I got from crossing a big, fat line through each item on the list. Each line meant a tiny victory for me. Some lists are simple and fun, like what is needed at the grocery store. Other lists, however, might as well be Mount Everest: the endless list of books I want to read, places I want to travel, home improvement projects, general life goals. You know, lists that remind me of what little progress I’ve made. Lists that mock me and, in turn, get moved from the top of the stack to the back of a drawer.