Kicking off the holidays: overindulgence, tears and a pie on the floor

So I bought this fancy seats-six-but-extends-to-seat-eight table, which is the perfect size for our little family cottage. It took me weeks to pick out chairs, but I ended up with these. We are going to get upholstered host chairs at either end of the table, but I haven't been able to pick those out yet so I'll wait until the Spring.

Dad is still not 100%, which means he needs too much rest and has too little energy, and could not go on his traditional Thanksgiving deep-sea fishing trip. Cydney has to work on Friday, so she asked if we could do Thanksgiving at my house. For the first time in my whole entire life, my dad was agreeing to stay under my roof. I used what I already had on hand to convert my dining table into a cozy table setting for four.

The only word that can describe our holiday meal is gluttonous. We could have fed at least a dozen people with what we cooked for the four of us. No one was willing to do without any traditions, so we had all of it. We did choose to limit ourselves to a turkey breast, which I brined in the Pioneer Woman's turkey brine. The heavenly scent of apples, oranges, garlic, peppercorns and fresh rosemary lingered in the house for several days. The end result was that a brined turkey is astromically juicier and more flavorful than any turkey I've had served any other way. We also rubbed the bastard in butter AND injected it with a rosemary/orange/garlic compound butter several times in the three-hour cook time.

I bought a cooked spiral-cut ham and heated it in a molasses/brown sugar/butter/red pepper glaze.

Mother made cornbread dressing, which I don't eat.

Nor do I eat green bean casserole, but she cooked it too. Like I said, no one was willing to give up eating any of their holiday favorites.

I have tried many hash brown potato casserole recipes, but the best is the one I get from Arkansas Emily. She used to make it for me in DC, and hers is the only one that tastes right to me. It must be the corn flakes on top.

All that cooking made the dogs some kind of tired. Murphy collapsed by the kitchen door, where he could still see my every move.

Dixie had to have a little nap in the sun.

Cydney was responsible for dessert. Dad's favorite dessert is the lemon meringue pie his mother used to make for him. She would put extra lemon juice in because he liked it extra tart. We made it, clearly not stirring it enough because it never got solid, but Dad said it tasted like it was supposed to.

Too bad we dropped this bitch on its face that very afternoon, so all Dad got was one good piece.

I insisted on a second pie, because I don't like fruit pies and I was hosting. I asked for a French silk pie. The mixer had to mix this filling for about twenty minutes total. The recipe calls for three eggs, added individually, with five minutes of beating on medium after each egg. It was divine.

Friday evening after Cydney got off work, we took Dad's truck down to Louisiana Nursery and bought the Allbritton Family's Very First Real Tree for Their Very First Christmas in Their New House. It took longer to pick the tree than to agree to buy the house.

As of Saturday night (as the Tigers were losing their trip to the Sugar Bowl), the tree is up and the stockings are hung and the trashy C-9 bulbs that have been my holiday tradition since my first apartment alone are illuminating the sunroom. Still to come - the front door, the dining room and the boys' tree in their room.

A note about the holidays: I am extremely emotional. It started about twoo weeks before Thanksgiving and I suspect it will continue through the New Year. The day I discovered they had converted my favorite satellite radio station to holiday music, almost three weeks ago, I was well into "The Christmas Shoes" before I registered that my ears were being violated. You know the song? It's the one about the little boy who can't afford to buy his mom the pretty shoes he wants to give her for Christmas so she can be stunningly dressed when she goes to heaven. I had to get off the interstate and pull over to collect myself. It ravaged me, and I have not recovered.

I did not have any holiday traditions with Erin, but I know her holidays with her boys were thoroughly planned for maximum enjoyment of tradition, celebration and surprise. I have a lot of confidence in my own capacity for tradition, celebration and surprise, but I can't imagine that a little boy will not ache for his mom at Christmas, especially his first Christmas without her. Multiply that times two little boys. And the parents and sister and nieces and extended family and friends who will really struggle through this first holiday without her. The last two weeks of watching the seasonal movies I enjoy, like Home Alone and The Family Stone, which happen to be movies about mothers and sons and holidays, have ended with my body-shuddering uncontrollable sobs through the credits. When you accept someone else's children as your own, you take on the responsibility for hurting when they hurt. And you maybe wail big painful cries alone in your living room when you are reminded in song or movie about their little broken hearts missing their mama at Christmas.

An additional layer to my holiday melancholy: I think some of it is a mix of joy and emotional exhaustion from surviving this year of deployment. I can count on both hands how many days our patriarch has left before beginning his journey home to us. Even though we won't have him back with us for about two weeks after that, we're at 1st & Goal and it feels terrific. I can't believe I'm almost done with this life experience. When he's home I, like my Noble fir, can drop and settle.

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