Over the few days spent in Philadelphia, along with enjoying time with lovely, welcoming grandparents, we saw some old friends, snuck away for a night without grandparents or their grandchildren and looked out upon the gracious city as the sun set, the lights blinked, and the sun rose again—quiet the entire time—and of course, there was Thanksgiving.
If you live on the Interwebs, you get to enjoy many more people’s spreads—behold, pie, behold more pie—and you get to learn how grateful people are (and how they are not buying anything or only buying local or venturing to the mall at midnight o’clock and turning back around in horror). I love learning the blessings everyone I know counts. If gratitude is the new black, I’m so wearing it.
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Some part of my grateful began when I turned 30 and lost a dear friend to a brain tumor. So deeply shaken, I kept wondering what I took from the experience of his graciousness during the illness beyond being permanently saddened. I realized that as others around me were freaking out about 30 (old) I didn’t take 30 for granted any longer. Each year is a gift. Roads not taken, wrinkles, stretch marks—bring it. I held my babies and felt grateful to get to do this. I watch the teenagers and feel grateful to get to witness their science fiction morph. I watched Obama be sworn in and wept. I wished somehow magically he had experienced these things. I watch our friend get completely into photography and realize that his passion for his life lived as fully as it was, keeps making ours better. What an awesome gift.
When my kids were small, I started with three good things as a bedtime ritual. I had no idea it’s a deal of its own. Finding the good moments and things even on bad days has changed me. I can’t articulate it much better than that. You just have to trust me. Maybe you will try it and see.
Toward the end of what seemed an interminable drive to Philly, due to heavy rain and just beyond zero visibility, we made a stop to drop our friend off at her grandparents’ apartment on Rittenhouse Square. With all the Occupy energy in town, the police were out in full force at 12:30 AM. Riding round the park, we were behind a police car and in front of another. “Motorcade!” Lucien exclaimed, channeling his inner-West Wing. “I’m in a motorcade!” And he waved at no one really and the crowds lining the park in his dreams.
I knew we had some good half-full energy going when his older brother declared, “Priceless.”
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Thanksgiving morning, we headed to the new trail near the grandparents’ house. Saskia followed her brothers. Then, she peed. Of course, I had nothing. It was warm enough to strip her tights off and she and I headed back. We had to do some serious chasing of one another to keep going. So, we chased. Once home, we got dry underwear of her choosing and pj’s as leggings.
Later, she and I and her eldest brother—who’d slept through the first walk—had a redo. She made it the whole way down the trail. I carried her most of the way back up. If there’s something about gratitude that makes you more easygoing, I think it also makes you much more open to the redo. That’s another essay, huh?
In that virtual parade of Thanksgiving feasts, a few people asked how Lucien made his gorgeous Brussels sprouts. Here’s how:
Cut each one in half, and then char in the iron skillet. Use canola oil for charring. Still in the skillet add olive oil, shallots, garlic, salt and pepper and thyme. Roast in the oven till tender.
