'Tis the Season

The Hillbillies just now piled into the van and headed back over the mountains to home. In the cold dark rain. A sad moment.

There is nothing like several days of intense recreational cooking and unrestrained gluttony to reassure the soul that there is, really and truly, enough fat on the bones to make it through the winter.

Lunch today was a culinary masterpiece, if you happen to be schizophrenic. We had a lawyer, sushi, Hebrew National Kosher Knockwurst, a preacher, home-grown mashed sweet potatoes, a bricklayer, a pot of fresh frozen black-eyed peas (part of the treasure trove in the freezer from last summer's trip to the farmer's market), dressing, gravy, a writer from the Northwest, corn bread with onions, (not as good as corn fritters, alas!) made from the stone-ground corn meal we brought home from the grist mill in Sandwich, a tossed salad, an accountant, green beans sauteed in butter with tumeric, potatoes , and a truck driver. A good time was had by all.

The conversation, too, ranged from the weird to the strange, with a smidgen of bizarre, and covered in exhaustive detail just how much of an impact those 5-inch spike-heeled white or red patent leather boots had in the jury's decision to let that preacher's wife off the hook when she unloaded the shotgun in him, and just how quickly a jury would acquit the lawyer if the preacher tried to talk her into wearing such gear, which got him to thinking.... ... At one point, I noticed that the preacher had hunkered up at the dining room table and blocked the writer's escape, perched vulture-like about 2" from his nose, quoting something from his pocket digital bible. Too bad my hands were covered with soapy water, else I would have digitally captured the moment.

Now I have only to bide my time until the e arrives! Halloo! Hoolay!

Almost Thanksgiving

It rained about fifteen minutes here two weeks ago. Other than the Lake drying up at a truly alarming rate, everything seems fairly normal. Fall was at its peak all the way up to Blue Ridge. I sailed home, down the wavy mountain roads, with the late afternoon sun illuminating the golden- hickory, maroon- red oak, and salmon-colored maple leaves to a degree that brought Notre Dame cathedral rose windows Chartres to mind. Realized, as I do every year, that it is my favorite season, always.... until the snow dusts the driveway or an ice storm coats the trees in diamonds.

I settled on the menu over the weekend. Hard to get very excited about the traditional feast without the kids here to peel apples for pie. One is in the Northwest, the other took an early vacation from her school responsibilities to join her dad in supporting the mental health industry. I went to visit her on Sunday. The oh-so-cheery social worker psychotherapist cozened up, notebook clutched to her chest-- lest anyone mistake her for one of the inmates-- and announced that we were going to have a group therapy session. "Ach, nein, meine Liebchen-- no one asked for my consent." "Oh, well, er, um, my" she said, clearly not expecting anyone to decline her invitation, "I think it's required by the insurance company for diagnostic purposes." The magic words, of course-- and words that had no doubt had slain many a dragon-- but not this one. "Really? You need to show me that in writing from my insurance company." The psycho social worker then started asking about the wee one's Dad and thought he said he was coming that afternoon, but she couldn't understand how he could have called her (the therapist) if he was in rehab. From this it would seem that they don't let the inmates have nearly as much in the way of phone privileges as his facility does. So we explained that he was about half-way through a four-month stint, and they had let him have his cell phone back this week. (I had my doubts about the male parental unit making an appearance, since that would have involved getting directions and finding it and there were only 20 minutes left of her once-a-week hour of family visitation.) Whereupon our pyscho theraputical friend toodled off to make herself busy stopping by to talk to other patients and their families. She didn't return, which was no surprise. The wee one was very unhappy and told me that I might not realize it, but I needed help, too, and that she couldn't get any better unless the whole family got better. So cute to hear the wee one parrot back the drivel they foist on the unsuspecting to jack their bills. In not exactly these words, but close, I told her "Well, then, I guess you're just s--- out of luck". I told her she needed to spend her time and energy getting through school and leave her moderately and very dysfunctional parents to their own respectively distorted views of reality. Chances of a successful outcome much higher that way. The hour was over too quickly. Dark clouds of anger behind the pupils now dilated with a new chemical cocktail, but she hugged my neck when I had to leave. Very sad business.

The next day I called the insurance company and explained what I had been told and asked if indeed, they required my participation in family therapy to determine teh wee one's length of stay. Of course not. So I asked her to register a complaint for me. She did. Without having gone so far as to have submitted charges to the insurance company, they escape being charged with fraudulent misrepresentation. Darn.

But wait- all is not utter doom and gloom-- my boss sent an unexpected email that she was taking six weeks of personal leave and that we shouldn't make the mistake she had of not valuing her personal life more than the (stupid) job, so I decided she was absolutely right and immediately cleared my only appointment the week the Wonderful e is going to be in town, and put in for a week of annual leave, so we can play. I haven't told her yet, so Shhhhhh! Immediately lifted my spirits.

For Thanksgiving, we are having blanched asparagus marinated in sesame oil and soy sauce; turkey, dressing, a couple of ministers, sweet potato souffle made from our very own organic (because we're too lazy to buy pesticides) sweet potatoes, a bricklayer, mashed potatoes, that cranberry-orange relish that no one but we two old ladies ever eats, a lawyer, Greek Salad, a truck driver, pumpkin chiffon pie with a garnish of ginger-pumkin strips in a bed of ginger snaps, an accountant, pee-can pie, gravy, sweet tea, coffee, hot rolls and butter, finished off with a diabetic coma. There is probably something else that I will make and forget in the refrigerator, as always, but even without whatever, there should be plenty. Perhaps even a tzei-tzchie demonstration, for the amusement of the guests.