Can I rename it Demeter Day?

If I actually allow myself to think about the history of Thanksgiving, I get pissy and cranky and I do things like write a ranty post and then delete it immediately because I'm not really as negative and hateful as I sound. The whole sordid weight of American history and the clash between the oppression that's happened and the patriotic shiny sweetness makes me queasy and annoyed so I kind of just don't think of myself as celebrating Thanksgiving. I just focus on my family and great food and visiting and the baby and whatever.

I've evolved as a cook over the past few years. The year Shane and I announced our engagement over Thanksgiving dinner, I took frozen shrimp cocktail and champagne to my Grandma's. This year I'm doing something with broccoli (was going to be a casserole but I'm daydreaming now about a puffy baked appetizer thing of some sort) and baking fresh bread and I have a potato salad assignment from my mother-in-law for the first time, which tickles me.

So I'm grooving on the vibe of the harvest feast- adamantly neverminding the fact that none of this food was harvested by any of our hands on any of our land. I'm thrilled to be immersed in kitchen goddessery and the simple pleasures of baking and gathering at a table full of love. I'm musing a little bit about how I can teach Molly this as she grows, and how in general to impart the Real Truths I feel in my soul to her when they conflict with the utter bullshit she'll encounter in school. I'll bury until later the worries about all the cultural everything and turn my mind toward the food and the cool air and the brilliant red bush raining tiny yoni shaped leaves at my front door.