Well, it’s the eve of Thanksgiving, and everywhere across America, turkeys that are hopefully completely thawed and ready to go, are soaking in good brine recipes, in eager anticipation for the feasts tomorrow.
And then there’s us.
Hubs and the boy are preparing four racks of baby back ribs and getting them securely wrapped in aluminum foil, in eager anticipation of putting them on the smoker before the sun is up tomorrow. Apparently, I missed that part of history class, when the pilgrims slaughtered a pig and invited the Native Americans over for ribs and pumpkin pie. But, if anyone has ever said, “You know… what I WISH I had slapped right here on my plate… right next to the mashed potatoes and the Stove Top stuffing and the cranberry sauce and Aunt Mary Beth’s green bean casserole… is a couple of amazingly-smoked pork ribs,” then our family has you covered, because the pigs who breathed a sigh of relief that this was THANKSGIVING and NOT EASTER, had never met their worst nightmare… named Hubs… before.
Thankfully, there will still be a turkey tomorrow and all the carbs that make us sit up and give thanks for our best stretchy pants, but there will also be ribs.
And also? Well, six entire years ago, on Thanksgiving Eve, Sister and her husband got a phone call that said, “SHE’S ARRIVING EARLY!!” And the little girl who was due the second week of December, who was being born on the far side of our big state, decided that she should be born that very day. And since her birth mama had handpicked my sister’s family to adopt her and become her forever family, Sister threw a thawed turkey at our mother and said, “We’re leaving! She’s here, she’s here, SHE’S HERE, and we can’t host Thanksgiving dinner!!” Except Sister shouted all of that into the phone, in one long breath that was almost impossible to decipher, right before she slammed the lid on her suitcase, with the arms of a sweatshirt hanging OUT of it, and jumped into her Suburban.
And that was that.
Six years ago, November 23rd was on Thanksgiving Eve, and little Cousin H arrived in this world. Sister texted a snapshot of her, as soon as they could, and that little picture on our phones stole all of our hearts.
Because she was just THE SWEETEST THING.
They drove home with her on Thanksgiving Day, when she was a whopping twenty-four HOURS old. We all fought over WHO would get to hold her first, as we welcomed that teeny, tiny, newborn girl into our family, through the miracle of adoption.
And tomorrow… on Thanksgiving Day… she turns six.
Sister had Little H’s birthday party this past weekend, to celebrate BEING SIX. Or rather, to celebrate being NEARLY SIX, as she still has to wait until tomorrow to be OFFICIALLY SIX.
Yes. Yes, I truly DID love her, right there on the spot. Which was, you know, YESTERDAY. Except apparently it wasn’t, because that adorable little stinker is already in kindergarten and told me that her favorite word to read is the word IS, because the S is tricky and sounds like a Z.
And because she’s as girly as girly can get, she picked out a fancily-decorated cake, with a big vanilla flower smack on the top. Nothing says LET’S DO THIS SIX YEAR OLD THING quite like an elaborate flower constructed from pure sugar.
Of course our big kids were at the birthday party, too, but they seemed rather hesitant to jump into the crowd of kindergartners and ooh and ahh out loud over the presents. Apparently, when you reach high school, you like to sit on the sofa, out of the reach of the camera’s lens while the troll dolls are being opened, but you still like to score a piece of the birthday cake.
And to all of you, may your turkeys be cooked to perfection, may your potatoes be fluffy and lump-free, and may your plates bear the pilgrims’ offerings of a good, pork baby back rib.
HAPPY THANKSGIVING, Y’ALL. Count your blessings and hold them tightly.