The main dish of our Thanksgiving dinner this year was a lovely roast of lamb covered in pesto and cooked to perfection.
Tim’s mother offered to cut his Thanksgiving lamb into little pieces for him, but he managed just fine on his own in spite of a broken hand and the pain it obviously caused him. He very gingerly placed his knife in the weakened grip of his forefinger and thumb, then slowly and methodically cut the meat into bite-sized cubes. It helped that he had a sharp knife.
My Darling B served mashed potatoes and carrot sticks with the roast, so all Tim had to cut was the meat. And he was very thankful.
He walked over from his apartment, possibly because he didn’t want to muck around with driving the car one-handed, but maybe just because he wanted to walk. He lives just a few blocks away and walks the distance maybe once a month, just for the hell of it, even in winter. More often in summer. He came over at about three and we had a nice chat in the front room for a couple hours while he iced his hand. B called us to dinner at about six, a little later than she’d planned.
After dinner, we retired to the living room for maybe half an hour to sit and digest, but all of us were quickly fading then. It had been a long day and it started early. I drove Tim back to his apartment with two sacks of frozen food his mother insisted he take with him so he wouldn’t have to worry about fixing dinner for himself one-handed.
Maggie, his hyper-shy cat, glared at me from the middle of his living room when he let me into his apartment with the bags of food. I slowly set them down, hoping not to spook her and maybe ever get a long look, or even get close enough to pet her. This was only the second time I’ve laid eyes on her; the first time all I saw was her face glaring out at me from under a dresser. This time, she trotted away into the bedroom after just a beat or two. “She’ll hide for at least an hour now,” Tim said, laughing.
I wished him a good night, headed back home and turned in early. Read almost an entire chapter from the book at the top of my “to be read” pile (“Apollo 8” by Jeffrey Kluger) but my eyes were slamming shut before nine, so lights out. Slept the sleep of the dead.
This Is Drivel 