Michael and I spent our first several Thanksgivings together traveling to Washington DC. I had just moved here from NYC and probably needed a big town fix. Washington was familiar to me and felt like home, so I guess that's why we journeyed there every year for Thanksgiving.
As with everything in life, the journey was always as important and special as the destination. The drives to Washington through the Shenandoah Valley on bleak gray mid-Novenmber days still dance in my head as reminders of simpler times. The farm houses would slowly pass by our car windows as we sped down the interstate in my 1977 white Ford Granada with dish a rag in place of a gas cap. Simple times. Even from a distance the houses looked happy with driveways full of cars from visiting family members and little clouds of smoke poofs drifting from their chimneys. All those Thanksgiving families gathered together in all those passing farm houses. A mental postcard.
Michael was in Miami this past weekend on business and I was here at home having my food fun. In the midst of my crazy mice en place-ing, sauteing, pan-searing, and whacked-out ingredient laden self indulgent food orgy, I was also thawing and brining a 14 pound turkey to roast for his arrival home dinner.