Well. That was interesting.
Thanskgiving, I mean. And the days surrounding it. Over the past week and a half, I:
- found out my grandmother passed away, after several years of painful decline
- masterminded and cooked an entire Thanksgiving meal for the first time
- served said meal to family and friends
- came down with about a two-minute cold
- drove down to San Diego with my family for my grandmother’s funeral
- drove back from San Diego
- found out my bike was stolen while I was gone
- strained my back somehow in the car, and am just now recovering
In this season of blessing-counting, it feels strange to be so scattered. I’ve spent the past few days marinating in a bath of gratitude and grief and low-level physical pain. None of it is particularly heavy or dark, but it’s all there, and occasionally some part of it bubbles up to the surface and bursts.
I feel so lucky for what I have. And so fortunate to have the luxury of nursing myself back to normal on my own time. I’ve been dosing myself liberally with homemade macaroni and cheese, made on the stovetop in about 20 minutes. I love this stuff, as simple and almost-healthy as it is: no butter, no cream, no breadcrumbs, no oven. No parboiling the noodles, even. Just whole-wheat pasta cooked slowly in milk until its own starch thickens the liquid into a sauce, and then a pile of cheese stirred in at the end. The familiar squish, sqush, squidge of the cheese and noodles against the spoon is almost therapy in itself.
I wish I could write more. But I’m still marinating. In the meantime, I have a bowl of comfort food and a lot to be thankful for.