26 November 2013
I’m in Fresno for work, writing in bed with coffee, and my first meeting isn’t until ten. As far as I’m concerned, Fresno is wonderful. I’m on the eighth floor, and these V formations of white birds with long legs keep flying right by my window. The sun is coming up. You can’t say fairer than that.
I took the train, and I’ve been getting to all my meetings on my bike. People think I’m crazy. This puts them at ease. I’m not what they expect from a lawyer, and since no one can stand lawyers, that’s a good thing. I’m meeting with social workers and foster children (older ones). And that’s all I should say about that.
I’m plotting our Thanksgiving picnic. And one of the things I give thanks for every year is low standards. They are so relaxing—a holiday! My turkey standards are especially lax. Everyone knows you can’t get the dark meat done without drying out the breast meat. Well, that’s what mayonnaise is for. And of course it’s a pain in the ass getting all those different dishes cooked and ready and still warm all the same time. That’s why I go straight to leftover status and make it into sandwiches. My usual rule of thumb for buying wine is to get whatever red is second to the cheapest. For Thanksgiving, I get third or even fourth cheapest. Enzo and Teresa have bubbly apple juice. I make pie. I make bread for the sandwiches. Cranberry from a can. And we go to the river with our sandwiches and fixings. This year it might rain. If it does, we’ll do exactly the same thing only sitting on the floor of the living room by the fire. Afterward, Enzo and Teresa can watch the game. I can read. It’s going to be fantastic.