Thanksgiving

The cold has settled in over California. Last week's epic journey and food-preparation feats were nothing to be scoffed at, and the darkness that hovers above our heads seems fitting for the season.

I have discovered that I am truly a Californian, now. The micro-variations in climate both seep into my bones, and comfort me with their cyclical flow. I don't like the cold, but the bright sunshine is generally kind, despite the chill. A ever-growing child sneaks into my bed in the wee hours of the morning, draping a leg over me in the hope of warmth. I awake to my hand with pins and needles, and a sluggish girl who doesn't wish to crawl out of bed, despite the urgency of an impending book report.

I praise her for her work. It is wonderful. Her design sense, her neat way of organizing her thoughts about literature... they make me beam with pride. I enjoy her chatter because it invariably is about a book she read, or is reading, or a film she watched or wants to see. This weekend past, we snuggled into the rainy San Franciscan winter, flooding our senses with delicate flavors: a simple (yet arduous) creamy Italian chestnut soup and thyme-laden creme fraiche, toasted hazlenuts with persimmons, cheeses, and creme de violette in prosecco, risotto with fontina and raclette ("no wonder it was strong!" cries the child, despite her explicit thankfulness for the existence of mushrooms in her Thanksgiving proclamation) and oyster, crimini, chanterelle and porcini mushrooms, toasty roasty brined turkey, homemade cranberry relish with gewurtzraminer and lemon zest, caramalized onion and squash pizza with gruyere and gorgonzola, a large seasonal salad of greens with pomegranate seeds, persimmon and toasted pinenuts and a lemon dressing, and finally, almond crusted chocolate mousse (my crowning achievement, it was not a FAIL) with amaretto and grand Marnier... Days previous: Mediterranean shrimp with feta, Days following: turkey carcass transformed into a pot of mole poblano, tamales of the same, and a quinoa based soup.

During the day we walked for miles peeping at murals and sipping hipster café, roasted on site, and brewed to perfection. Buying yarn and knitting needles (she's made an amazing scarf for me, but shhhh. it is a secret!), stopping to pet dogs, and soak in the glorious cityscape.

In the evenings, she got a film education while not listening to books on audio, our perennial travel companion: We listened to: Neil Gaiman's The Graveyard Book on the way up, as I discovered a forgotten wallet, and averted a crisis with the luck of supportive (and available) parents, and while scoring, roasting and peeling the tenaciously clinging inner skins of the chestnuts. We listened to S.E. Hinton's The Outsiders on the way back... and I realized that my nearly 11-year-old is now fully in the teen-age reading level in terms of her interests and emotional capacity. She read Sandra Cisneros' The House on Mango Street for her most recent book report (feverishly finished this morning before school) because we went to a talk at Arts and Lectures last week, and her friend, the film director who wants to cast her in her newest film, as well, said she MUST read it. So she did. As for film, she finally got to see Monty Python and the Holy Grail. (She'll undoubtedly see the violence inherent in the system!!!), and Poltergeist, two films that she has been long begging to see. We watched Ponyo together and concurred that Japanese culture is far too foreign for us to truly grasp. (She tried to be diplomatic, but she said she thought it was wildly improbable, and narratively disjointed, and besides, WHY would a mom drive like a maniac and leave her 5 year old son in charge up on a mountain in the middle of a raging tsunami-inducing storm?) She had a mini Zombie fest while the adults steamed tamales and poured drinks, watching all the episodes of The Walking Dead before finally convincing us to let her watch the Shining.

This was, if not a mistake, at least a lesson learned. She boasted for hours that nothing scared her, but, as the psychological drama heightened, she kept pausing and creeping into the kitchen for reassurance. Stanley Kubric, she claims, is her new favorite director (If only she knew of my relationship to A Clockwork Orange!) She convinced her mama to let her cling in terror through the final scenes of the film, exhilarated and terrified at once. Wrapping her lithe limbs around me, clutching for comfort, but keeping her eyes peeled to the horrific ax-wielding Jack Nicholson. "Wow! No one has ever been able to really scare me before!" she exclaimed in awe, unable to fully articulate precisely why this was a different sort of scary. "You know, the book is really great, too..." I tell her, and her eyes flash gleefully. Perhaps this will be the next line of books she reads, lover that she is of haunting and ghostly apparitions.

Leaving Kirsten and Steve in the Mission, we trekked to Berkeley, skidding into our seats, racing on foot through the hail, to watch the latest Harry Potter, as promised. We smiled, cozying in, ready to have our emotions wrenched. She claims that this is the best, because of the photography and use of lighting. Better than all the films that came before. I wonder what she'll say of the last one?

We spent our last night in front of a crackling fire, the girls I., S. and M. playing while the mamas and the papa hung out in the kitchen, sipping red wine, and then eating a spectacular cioppino, made by Cheyla's masterful hands. Late in the night we all abandoned small girls, to the available papas, and raced into the night on bicycles and freezing in only high boots and short skirt (me), and ridiculously silly looking hats and puffy NorthFace jackets. Oysters and pepper roulette where on the sleight, and I felt, for a brief moment, so truly loved and grateful for these friendships.

I am thankful for the small things, I need to remind myself when the overwhelming aloneness threatens to engulf me. The cold chill will end, the sun will emerge. There are stories to tell, and be told. To watch and listen.