I've really gotten stuck on hand images lately. I did not shop yesterday, on "Black Friday," the day that's supposed to put retailers in the black for the year. This was not a political act, or non-act, particularly. It's what I would have done anyway: Stay far, far away all box stores and malls. Shopping malls make Dr. Omed's skin crawl: Claustrophobia and agoraphobia all wrapped up in one big unhappy-making package. Malls are also full of bad smells, awful artificial smells—scented candles, "perfumes," a thousand and one chemical odors mixed with the smell of people and reek of the food court. Dr. Omed has a very sensitive nose. I have good friends who are devout shoppers who get up early and leap joyfully into the fray on Black Friday, but they are made of sterner stuff than I am.
I stay home. I putter about, and prepare for Thanks Again—the Saturday after Thanksgiving when the little clan of people here in Tulsa I regard as part of my chosen family gather for our own, second Thanksgiving, Thanks Again—an instant tradition we just invented one year. Yesterday, I baked rolls from scratch, and made my soon-to-be-world-famous tater tot apple streusel pie. Elspeth made spinach madeline and her family hierloom cranberry molds. Today I used all the remaining peppers from the garden and made a truly incandescent batch of my HELL-IN-A-JAR. Before I sat down at the keyboard, I peeled a whole lot of potatoes, boiled 'em, and whipped up the true mash with butter and cream. Melissa and Chris, who are hosting this year, will provide the turkey and dressing, and the other eight or nine of us will bring the rest of the feast. It's almost time to take a shower and get ready to go. I hope you all have as fine an evening as we will. Take your blessings where you find them.
