Good With Cream Cheese

This scene greeted me on the kitchen counter this morning as I prepared to leave for the airport.

I wondered if it was the fish or the fresh pumpkin muffins that were good with cream cheese.

I decided it was the muffins. Thank you, Hannah.

I am sitting at the Atlanta airport, where all of humanity has gathered to fly home from Thanksgiving dinners and family gatherings. We had a luscious Thanksgiving, too -- just look at that dish of baked vegetables... even before baking, it was this beautiful! Merci, merci to the chefs!

We've had two days of deliciously wonderful, constantly falling rain, and no one is complaining because we've been in such a drought here.

But it's foggy this morning, as a result. ATL, the world's busiest airport, is careful with low ceilings, and that often means flight delays. But I have my muffin. I will be fine.

I'm on the way to Washington, D.C. I will spend a day with family in Frederick, Maryland, then scoot to Fairfax and Fauquier Counties in Virginia, where I'm working the rest of the week with third-through-eighth graders on personal narrative writing.

Schools are my tasty muffins. Family is my cream cheese treat, that little (big) extra. After this trip, I am home for the year. Let the celebrating begin, both for this trip, and for the family time right around the corner.

I'm looking forward, this holiday season, to lots and lots of cream cheese...

Rights, Privileges, And Traditions

Yesterday, I early-voted in Georgia's runoff election for U.S. Senator. I will be teaching in D.C. area schools on the actual election day, December 2 (Tues. next week), and yesterday was the last of three days of early voting.

I didn't want to go.

It was cold outside. The early voting facility was 40 minutes away. I've been sick -- I'm still hacking. It was the day before Thanksgiving; traffic would be terrible and I had lots to do.

But. Women didn't fight for my right to vote so I could sit at home and not cast my vote in an important run-off election, on a day when I had every means to get to the polling place. It's hard to believe today that women in this country, not so long ago, were beaten, imprisoned, and tortured by those who did not want to give them their constitutional right to cast a ballot in this country and to have a say in their -- and their children's -- future.

[Recommended viewing: Iron-Jawed Angels starring Hillary Swank as Alice Paul. A phenomenal film. You will never again take for granted a woman's right to vote.]

So. Voting is my right. It is also a privilege. And now, it is a tradition. Just as is the Thanksgiving dinner we will gather for this afternoon. Jim plays at the Georgian Club today until 2pm. We've scheduled dinner for 4pm, and Jason is hosting us. He and his friend Stephanie and his brother and sister (and Elvis Andy Bebop) spent yesterday afternoon, closeted over at Stephanie's house, chopping, stirring, baking, bonding.

I am in charge of making my mother's cornbread dressing. I'm about to pop the cornbread, in its iron skillet, into the oven. Hannah made my mother's pecan pie last night, along with "The Orange Stuff" -- what would a southern Thanksgiving be without a congealed salad?

Here's the recipe:
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Orange Congealed Salad (aka, affectionately, The Orange Stuff)

1 large box of orange Jell-O, melted in large bowl using 1 c. boiling water

Add a softened two cups of Cool-Whip and
a softened two cups of orange sherbet

Whip all in your Mix-Master or with a hand-blender until smooth.

Fold in two small cans of Mandarin oranges, drained.

Refrigerate until set, then cut into squares and arrange squares artfully on lettuce
leaves. Or not.

Sigh and eat three squares at one sitting.
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The morning is mellow. Hope yours is, too.

A Place To Call Home

This is the view from my bedroom window. Probably I should rake.











This is the view from over the salad bowl in my kitchen. Just needs a few nuts and seeds, some bleu cheese, maybe...














This is the view from the top of the pot. Some cranberries are in order. Maybe some almonds. And the beans from last week's chili, to make a complete protein.















This is the view from atop the cutting board. A little steaming is all that's needed.















This is the view from the pink chair, where I eat my meal with loved ones and listen to the companionable click of the fire.


See my grandmother's sad iron in the foreground? My mother said she grew up learning to iron with this very iron, which was heated over the coals... what an art it must have been to have been able to iron with one of these without burning the sheets or dresses or shirts you were ironing... without burning yourself.



It's an art to make home in whatever way you make it. I'm glad to have a home, this Thanksgiving season... there were times I literally had no place to call home, no bed for my children.

If you have not been there, it's hard to imagine the fear that it brings, the desperation that dogs your every step, and the indignities that lurk at every turn.

It's hard to find community, to find understanding, to find concrete ways to help yourself. It's a scarring thing, to be homeless. It scars you, your children, and their children, too. It scars a nation, and it is a shame on earth.

Many families today have lost their homes. Many in this country and others around the world haven't had homes for such a long time. I am supremely lucky to have leaves to rake and broccoli to chop and dishes to wash and good work to do within my four walls, and without. I am lucky to have found community, and loved ones, and a generous-hearted family.

May it be so for all, forever. That's my Thanksgiving wish.