Thanksgiving

New niece Thanksgiving. Look at those eyes. Still won't let me hold her for long. Couldn't eat my butternut squash soup because of the butter and leeks. There's more to this to finish later. Good night.

...

Jolie and I walked to the park, despite the morning-fog burning sunshine that slowly, slightly evaporated the morning's cold, dripping moisture. She had run ahead, bicycle helmet on, following her mom, who had Evie nestled in a running stroller, quite fast, white iPhone headphones in her ears and the ever-diligent first one arm swinging and then the other. Jolie's dad, my brother, pulled a u-y in the cul-de-sac and on the way back took Jolie's helmet, and as he passed me said, "Try to keep up," which would proved difficult because my ribs started ripening a bruise from Sunday's YMCA basketball game, where I landed straight on my chest after having my legs swiped out from under me. It was an odd play. Landed on my left chest, could feel my rib cage compress. Landed pretty hard.

Jolie was running to mom, but when mom turned around in the cul-de-sac, too, she realized that it was just me and her, to walk down the narrow alley-way back steps that dot the neighborhoods of the Oakland and Berkeley hills. Before reaching the stairs, the maples were flaming on the side of the street, and the bay sky peered blue between the houses, downtown, the TransAmerica building triangle looking sharp in the distance, some clouds wrathing the distance behind the Golden Gate Bridge, a long thin red-budded plant stem shooting across the frame.

We walked down the steps and talked about how we should have a skateboard to go down and Jolie's little fantasyland brain giggled up at the thought, however absurd, knowing it was impossible, but dreaming about the realities it would allow. We had quite a shortcut. The entrance to the park was on the left, a break in a chainlink fence, wooden railing guiding the muddy path down into the valley's park, redwood trees tall on the slope, four people struggling up on the muddy path, soupy with the drizzling rain from the morning. We stuck to the pine needle-covered path just under the downslope wooden rail and then entered the center when the mud became a little firmer down the path. The parking lot spread below us, about a hundred feet.

It was a good-ish park.

But I had to hurry back to finish the meal that my sister-in-law doubted would start at three. I still had hope. But when you're cooking in someone else's kitchen and your mom, who's cooking too, has a tendency to confuse any situation into a fluffy, appetizer-laden, dirty dish-, utensil-filled, fish-heavy affair, it took some drilldown focus to finish it. Especially braising cooked still-firm sweet potatoes with a jalapeno-molasses sauce and grilling for a few minutes. Was quite a mess. And making a pie crust with a pieced-together recipe. Ugh. But it came together with white whine and red, a football game in the other room. The kids asking for something to do, anything. But nothing could be offered, because managing is a lot trickier and requires more organization than you can imagine.
So be it.