Not black at all

As people all around the world know, today is Black Friday, one of the most insane shopping days of the year. The custom has spread to places that don’t have Thanksgiving, which I do not understand, but whatevs.

And here’s what I’m grateful for: I will at no time today be anywhere near any place where people are shopping.

Many thanks

It’s the Big Day for gratitude here in the United States. The very lucky among us will be gathering with family and friends over a meal, and then some other activities. Bowl games; worship services; going to a movie; board games; serving at a homeless shelter; catching up on news; arguing about fashion choices, politics, original Wonder Woman vs reboot.

Some will go shopping, which means that others will be at work, helping them. Still others will also be at work, on fire trucks and ambulances, in hospital wards and emergency rooms, in cockpits and airports, in patrol cars and precinct houses, on military bases all over the world.

The less fortunate will be eating at soup kitchens, or alone, or not at all.

Today I’ll be joining the friends who had me over last year, and I’m deeply grateful for this. And here’s what else I’m grateful for:

All the turkeys, pigs, cattle, lambs, fish, oysters and other creatures who gave their lives so we can feast—I hope you had a kind existence and a humane end. Thank you.

Farmers, ranchers, fisherfolk, workers in the fields—thank you for your labor that brought this amazing bounty to our tables. You too, supermarket workers—stocking the shelves, directing us to the arcane things we need, sweeping the floors, ringing up all the bags of groceries. I hope you’re unionized. Thank you.

Those who operate homeless shelters, free clinics, soup kitchens, food banks every day of the year—you are my heroes. You give me hope for humanity. Thank you.

Gas station attendants, emergency road rescue crews and convenience store operators who backstop people on the road today, you’re performing a mitzvah. Thank you.

Restaurant cooks, busboys and waitstaff serving families all over the country: I hope your customers don’t give you a hard time and they tip well. Thank you.

First responders of all stripes—thank you.

Serving military, wherever you are, you are on the frontlines of national policy, often making the best of a bad lot. Veterans, however long your service, you contributed to our security at a cost to you we cannot fully understand. Thank you.

Robert S. Mueller III and your team of lawyers, tax experts, terrorism investigators, litigators, RICO prosecutors, money laundering investigators and criminal fraud specialists: please take the day to be with your families and friends, and reflect upon the hundreds of thousands of lives being endangered by the crimes you're probing. The nation and the world are depending on you to uncover whatever acts of corruption, financial improprieties, high crimes and misdemeanors that this Congress is too spineless to look for. Be safe. And thank you.

Those eating alone, or at soup kitchens or not at all—my wish for you is that you soon will find your place among friends who welcome you into their hearts, and that there is room there for gratitude.

Happy Thanksgiving, all.

And I don't mean lettuce

I love bread—thick-sliced whole grain for sandwiches, home-baked white with crusts removed for cinnamon toast (which my great-grandmother made for us), challah (don't slice it!), corn tortillas straight from the tortillería (or your abuelita’s hands), tandoori-blistered naan, buttery-flaky croissants washed down with café au lait in the morning, paper-thin lavash for scooping the pilaf and kabob koobideh, cornbread, those pancakes for moo-shu pork, crusty French to soak up the garlicky broth from moules. If I’m missing any, just fill in the blanks yourself.

Not for nothing is bread called the staff of life—it is an integral part of meals around the world. “Our daily bread” is code for all food that sustains us. “Breaking bread” is how we invite friends and strangers alike into our homes and our lives. In many cultures, to haul off and commit violence while either a host or guest is a serious crime, because it violates the sanctity of hospitality, as symbolized by the sharing of bread.

And, speaking of sanctity, also not for nothing does bread symbolize the body of Christ during Communion. Because see above about the staff of life.

So today I’m dreaming of bread in all its manifestations, and I’m thankful for its manifold blessings, both real and symbolic.

November heat

There’s something about November—the world (at least in the Northern Hemisphere) getting ready for winter; leaves have finished running through their October particolored changes and are being blown all around by the winds; menus shift from salads and grilled fish to boeuf bourguignon and roasted potatoes.

The weather here in the District They Call Columbia has completely bought into the pre-winter schtick, with daytime temps creeping barely into the 50s, and that sharpish wind slicing through several layers of clothing. So I am deeply grateful for having functioning central heating in my house, with a thermostat, which enables me to come in from that cold outside, to a blissfully warm inside, no matter which room I walk into.

A long time ago I realized what a difference having heat makes on one’s outlook. We were moving from the house where I grew up to another one, which had been in probate and therefore the gas wasn’t connected. I went over on a December morning to wait for the PG&E guy, and in the hour or so it took, I felt like the entire world blew rocks. We’re talking Los Angeles, but in the foothills, so it was pretty chilly, and that house was…weighing heavy on my soul.

But within a few minutes after PG&E fired up the furnace and I felt the warm air through the vents—my spirits started to lift, and all kinds of things seemed possible. Nothing else had changed except the place wasn’t freezing.

So, every time I walk through the front door now I’m reminded again what a blessing this is, how fortunate I am to have shelter that offers this kind of comfort throughout this bleak season.

Gratitude Monday: The spirits are about to speak

Gratitude Monday for the Big Week of Gratitude here in the United States, Thursday being the giorno di tutti giorni of gratitude. So I’ll ease into it.

I’m very fortunate to have been invited back for Thanksgiving dinner with friends. My contribution to the festivities will be a couple of pies. So, I’ve been frantically trawling the Interwebz for recipes, and then perusing my gleanings in search of something both traditional and interesting.

A couple of my finds required bourbon, which I do not have. So, on Friday, on a huntin’ trip to McLean (a community blessed with both old and new money, the operative term being “lots of money”) for suet (a story for perhaps another post), I went to the McLean ABC store.

(ABC, in case you do not live in a benighted state, stands for Alcoholic Beverage Control, which is the agency in the Commonwealth of Virginia that runs the only liquor stores in the state. Up until just a few decades ago, you couldn’t buy booze legally here at all. Because God. Then, once the legislature decided that, well, okay, maybe God—and the Baptists—was okay with spirits, they determined that the only appropriate outlet should be controlled by the state. Because revenues. And here we are, entirely at the mercy of what some centralized, Baptist-Methodist bureaucracy decides Virginians should drink, if they’re hell-bent on drinking anything by sweetened iced tea.)

Well, the McLean store moved across the street from where it used to be. Seems like a larger space, and the manager—in a considerable upgrade from the usual good ol’ boy reeking of tobacco exudates whose idea of likker is Virginia Gentleman with a Bud chaser. (Or the newer group, who appear to be from South Asia. And also have no notion of their merchandise.)

Okay, but I went in armed with a list of recommendations from my spiritous adviser. And the manager was very helpful indeed. Buffalo Trace, as it turns out, disappears off the shelves within a day of arrival, but choices two and three—Eagle Rare and Larceny—were available. The manager had a couple of comments on both, which indicates that he at least knew his stock.

I also splurged on a bottle of Calvados, which I have not had since a trip to France in the last century. I thought the holidays a good time to revisit that. Again, the manager was au fait with this—calva, too, disappears quickly, so I was glad to snag this one.

It remains to be seen whether I’ll particularly like either of the bourbons, but they’re good quality, and my guiding principle is that you don’t cook with anything you wouldn’t drink. And I’m grateful for the opportunity to venture out a little into the spirit world. 

Let the baking commence!