Thyme
We lit the first fire of the season the weekend before Thanksgiving this year, which feels later than it should have, given how cold it had already gotten, but there’s something about that first fire that I refuse to rush. Patrick stacked the wood the way his father taught him, all careful angles and patience, and I sat on the floor in front of the hearth with a blanket around my shoulders, watching him work, thinking about how much has shifted for us in the years since that first lonely Thanksgiving in Michigan, just the two of us and a cornbread dressing I wasn’t sure anyone else would understand.
This year our table is fuller than it’s ever been. We’re hosting both of our families for the first time in this house, which is its own kind of small miracle when I think about how far we both came from to end up gathering everyone in the same room. I’ve spent the last two weeks making lists, the kind that get crossed off and rewritten about four times, trying to figure out how to fit a turkey, a ham, my cornbread dressing, Patrick’s apple pie, and apparently three different versions of green beans, because everyone’s mother has the definitive one, into one oven and one afternoon.
What I keep coming back to, though, as the leaves finish falling and the fire crackles in the next room, isn’t the logistics. It’s gratitude, the real and unglamorous kind, the kind that shows up in small moments rather than big proclamations. Grateful for a husband who still tastes the sauce every twenty minutes and offers unhelpful but well-meaning notes. Grateful for a house with a fireplace and enough chairs, finally, for everyone we love. Grateful for the version of myself who decided, four years ago, to write all of this down, because looking back at those early posts now feels like flipping through a different kind of family cookbook, one made of memories instead of recipes.
Tomorrow the house will be loud and a little chaotic and completely wonderful, and tonight, with the fire going and Patrick beside me, I wanted to take a minute and just sit with how lucky we are before the noise starts.
Happy Thanksgiving, from our table to yours.