Confessions of a kitchen fascist

Yesterday, I bought a turkey.

Today, I bought a new roasting pan and pie plates.

Tomorrow, the cooking begins.

I love Thanksgiving. It's a holiday about being thankful. It's a holiday about food. I love gratitude, and I love food.

But there's another reason I am excited.

The cooking.

I've got a small crowd to feed - just Sam, my sister-in-law Kirsten, and myself. I'll probably sneak a nibble of turkey to Oedipa, but she has notoriously low poultry standards, since she subsists mostly off of Purina One.

Knock knock

The last two weeks have been rife with milestones.

I crossed the halfway point of pregnancy. I bid farewell to pants with zippers, sleeping through the night, and lying on my back. I ventured into the baby megastore and settled on a color scheme for the nursery.

But the biggest milestone was also the tiniest.

Somehow, I imagined that when I felt the baby move, it would be a cinematic moment. She would reach out with her tiny hand, give me a nudge, and I would jump up in amazement. Sam would rush over and feel her movements, tears in his eyes. We would stand in a long, lovely embrace, dramatic music swelling in the background.