At the risk of posting more than once about this Thanksgiving, and on boring you to tears with my exhausting tale of travels and fun in multiple hemispheres with two disgustingly photogenic children who are a part of my life due to my sister and brother in law, I wish to report that Thanksgiving dinner, with its stuffings (we make two) a turkey deemed “Fred” by my not-squeamish niece who will certainly not follow in my non-meating eating footsteps, cranberry sauce, roasted brussel sprouts and many other tasty dishes, was a small, but smashing success.

We are, for the first time in many years, alone. Our friends of the family, practically family themselves, are in NY, and we are in California. The best friend of a deceased aunt that stands in almost as an aunt herself, though is actually closer to a friend, is also not here, spending the holiday with friends in NY. My grandfather, who always insisted that there be quantities and varieties of cheese too great to eat or name, is long deceased.

We’re sad, but happy. Sad for what we’ve lost, a commmunity, a house full of chaos and fruit salads and contributions-a-million, cello concerts by kids almost old enough to feel self-conscious (10, in case you were wondering). But we’re happy. We’re so lucky to have each other, the means to pull this all together and a three year old with a vocabulary to make you burst out loud laughing when all you want to do is make him stop.talking.just.for.one.second.

And now we have this year’s version of pecan pie, for a once-a-year treat that you pretty much wouldn’t want to eat more often than that. And a sister laying in bed willing her antibiotics to kick in. She’d like to note that she’s thankful for doctor’s offices open on Thanksgiving.

I wouldn’t trade today for anything. Next year in San Francisco. But we’ll skip the sinus infection in 2011.