Pretty strange to be thousands and thousands of miles away from the original homestead. (OK, nearby the original, since the original is yet marked by an appropriate plaque noting my residency and is filled with strangers with the price of admission and appropriate Purchase and Sales agreements.)

I miss everyone, but not necessarily the family ritual of holidays. It’s a bit less stressful when you don’t gots to be anywhere, and it’s unlikely you’ll be picking a fight over 40+years of injustice and misunderstanding and betrayal and just good, old-fashioned sibling rivalry.

Besides, having the dinner at my house meant I could get my whole control freak on and Martha Steward the fuck out of the meal. I insisted on an almost entirely home-made feast, scoffing at M.’s suggestions to just buy pie and bread and all. Philistine.

My fresh-baked and hand-made crust apple scored two-to-one against his store-bought pumpkin cheesecake. My crust ain’t pretty, but it’s mighty tasty.

Jesus, what a lucky man that M. is.

And, here’s the Norman Rockwell scene. Only it has Asians. (M. insisted the bird be on the table so he could, man of the house style, make with the sharp implements right under the guests’ noses.)