When Mothering publisher and editor Peggy O’Mara asked everybody on staff to send their Thanksgiving menus so we could post them online, I felt a little squeamish. Truth is, Thanksgiving kind of snuck up on me this year. Tim and I thought Reeve would be visiting a friend across the country, so we just figured we’d do what we’ve done the last couple of years when he was out of the country: a quiet celebratory meal, just the two of us, at . . . Dunkin’ Donuts.*
I couldn’t see adding to the inspired Mothering staff menus online my own planned fare for the day: “Dunkin’ Donuts egg and cheese bagel; cinnamon fritter; really hot coffee (regular and decaf; cream and sugar available)”
But, instead, Reeve came home for the holiday. Knowing that we hadn’t made plans for Thursday, he accepted an invitation to join a friend’s family on their ranch a couple of hours from here.
So he left this morning, taking with him the apple pie I made in my sleep late last night (my embarrassingly easy prefab pie crusts that I dust with sugar and cinnamon so people might think they’re homemade)—even though I felt a little weird sending it after Reeve said he was told that the mom on the ranch was “known for her pies. . . .” He’ll stay the night, then will be back tomorrow for family adventuring with Tim and me.
And Tim and I went to Dunkin’ Donuts, which was, as we both anticipated, exquisite. The coffee perfectly hot hot hot, the bagel properly almost too-toasted, the conversation transcendant. And we were grateful.
Much of the day, I was feeling alternately 1) grateful that Reeve had a place he was excited about being for Thanksgiving, and 2) remiss that Tim and I didn’t provide that for him, that we’ve never done the full-blown Thanksgiving dinner with all the trimmings as a threesome (Reeve has had that Norman Rockwell-style experience on occasion in the past when we’ve visited our extended families, but never at our house. We’ve always opted instead for unconventional honorings of the day, usually involving road trips and Route 66-era motels and diners.), fretting, feeling inadequate as a mom.
But then, late afternoon, I got a short message from Reeve, texting me from the ranch, saying simply: “Your pie is amazing!”
Warming this mama’s little non-cooking heart and somehow making everything right. . .
Happy Thanksgiving, y’all.
Photo: Tim and I give thanks today over our own personal variation on the traditional Thanksgiving meal.
*followed by several hours at the Mothering office, where I attended to my production throes freakout—files are always due at the press the last week of November—while Tim wrote or read
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