Thanksgiving, Thursday, November 23, 2017. My radio show goes on at 9 a.m., but we’re in Pacific Time–seven in the morning. This means that I will take care that we don’t awaken Jackson.
I must wait until the last possible time for Mary Ann to transport me from the hotel to Jude and Suzanne’s (and Jackson’s) house. Fortunately, all the electronic gear worked perfectly. The show originates once again from the house’s laundry room. It’s an easy-going broadcast for two hours, like something from out of the 1950s. Many callers reminisce about their previous Thanksgivings. That’s exactly what has kept this show on the air all these thirty years.
Last night, my little-used talents were used to crank out a necessary cheesecake. I got the thing put together and baked, while Jude watched over the careful cooling process that keeps the cheesecake looking good. I’m glad he did. His ovens have controls that even the occupants of the house can’t easily figure.
Meanwhile, Mary Leigh has been working on a brilliant cake made to resemble a road construction site, with barricades, derricks, cones, and all the other black-and-yellow-striped furnishings of such a place. What’s it all about? Jackson gets a kick out of such places, especially if a lot of debris is being pushed around. And not only is this Thanksgiving, but the date when Jackson was born two years ago. So he gets what he wants. And the cake is extolled by everyone, another masterpeice from my daughter Mary Leigh.
The guests filter in as morning turns to midday. The fifteen-pound turkey the staff roasted last night has come out exceptionally nice, thanks to an unusual me those of cutting slices off the bird. Each slice is about three quarters on an inch thick, which somehow eliminated all the bones and other detritus as the cook kept carving his way through. The usual side dishes are all here: a very rich macaroni and cheese casserole, several crisp salads, chunky mashed potatoes, broccoli with no noticeable sauce, big shrimp in more or less the standard sauce for a remoulade, and many more dishes that I don’t recall having seen yesterday.
About two dozen guests are here. Most of them are little kids who have as much fun as Jackson does, running around, playing games, and occasionally eating. The adult guests have an equally good time watching the kiddos as they tear through the house, laughing all the time.
Topic A among the adults–many of whom were here last year– is how articulate these children show since then. I’m astonished especially by the things Jackson says. When some of us bring up the topic of dining out tomorrow, Jackson says, “Get a reservation!” He is two years old! That’s my boy!