I refuse to start Christmas until the day after Thanksgiving, regardless of how many decorations merchants put up or how early they start piping in Christmas music. But now it’s time. So below is my eggnog recipe, plus my recipe for post-Thanksgiving leftovers shepherd’s pie, a tradition at my house. And, why not, I’ll throw in my family’s traditional recipe for Tom & Jerry batter.

Over the river and up the freeway, #1 Son and I traveled to B’s & K’s house. Thanksgiving was great fun. B & K put together an awesome evening. It was a smallish, rather quiet group this year. But the company was pleasant, as always, and the food was yummy, as always. K was very brave this year and used paper plates and plastic ware. You GO K! I think that was one of the best ideas I’ve seen for a long time. Who wants to hand-wash all that china and stuff, not to mention ironing all the linen?

Well… OK, some people do. I like to drag my “good” stuff out every now and then, because I don’t get to very often any more. All the same, I thought there was nothing wrong with paper plates. They had turkeys on them, fergodsake, so they were very seasonal.

#1 Son always feels as though it’s not a successful large gathering unless there is at least one crisis. Last year the boyfriend of the younger B & K daughter was supposed to bring the rolls. He found them in the trunk of his car after the meal was over. But we all gave him credit for trying.

This year the rolls were in attendence, but needed warming. So B placed them in a paper bag and popped them in the oven — the time-tested, traditional method of warming rolls.

But the bag accidentally touched the burner and caught fire.

So there was a bit of excitement for a few minutes while B threw the bags in the sink and eldest B & K daughter attempted to douse the still-burning bag, part of it in the sink and part fallen to the floor. For some reason she grabbed salt instead of soda to smother the fire. Salt doesn’t really work the same way… But eventually the fire was extinguised. Most of the rolls made it through the ordeal unscathed (and unheated).

#1 Son missed the whole thing. “There hasn’t been a crisis,” he said, disappointed, during dinner. He was even more disappointed when we told him about The Incident Of The Burning Bag. But he agreed that the evening was, therefore, a rousing success.

But when the evening was complete and left-overs were being divvied up, a new small crisis presented itself. “Where’s the paper bag I brought the sweet potato casserole dish in?” I asked B, while searching vainly through the kitchen. “I want to pack my loot in it.”

His reply: “It’s the one that burned.”

Oh. Oops! But another bag was found, and, loot in hand, #1 Son and I traveled back down the freeway and across the river and home. This year I will be the only one indulging in post-Thanksgiving shepherd’s pie, being the only two-legged household carnivore (the cats do not get my turkey!). So it will be a small batch, but one greatly enjoyed!

Click the link below for the recipes.

The Persistent Illusion household heads north for turkey day. The last several year’s we’ve gone to B’s house. B is an old friend of mine who I’ve known for many years and worked with a couple of times at different employers. We’ve been invited to their house for Thanksgiving for the last several years.

This year I wasn’t sure that B was having Thanksgiving until I received an e-mail that said, “Will you be coming with your sweet potatoes?”

Now, I wasn’t really sure when reading this sentence if I was really invited, or if he just wanted the sweet potatoes shipped up to Vancouver via FedEx. But I assumed the former and replied that, yes, #1 Son and I would be coming along with the potatoes.

My recipe for candied sweet potatoes (that should probably really be called “carmelled sweet potatoes”) has been passed down through the women of my family for generations. I know it goes back over 100 years — back to the days when nothing was canned (unless you preserved it yourself) and all fresh ingredients were used. It’s very specific about its ingredients, and does not include marshmallows, nuts, or other icky things. It’s a very plain, unassuming recipe. People that claim to hate sweet potatoes love these. I only make them a couple of times a year, but I really like them. So if we are invited someplace during the holidays, I always offer to bring sweet potatoes. That way I know I’ll get to eat them. I’ll put the recipe below.

B and his wife K take in strays during the holidays, so there’s always an interesting and eclectic group there for dinner. It’s a lot of fun because I never know who I’m going to meet.

One year there was a woman who was a proponent of medical marijuana, apparently on a frequent basis. She kept something like 50 or 60 cats and didn’t understand why her neighbors complained. She spent a lot of the visit talking about how wonderful pot was, which pissed me off a little since #1 Son was younger then. But she also complained about having no short term memory. Go figure. She actually turned out to be a walking anti-drug-abuse poster, so I forgave her excentricities.

For several years a couple who made the most wonderful wine came. But I don’t believe they will be there this year since they have moved out of state. It’s a pity, because this year I’m actually not taking any medication that would preclude imbibing. Last year I only got sips.

Whoever is there, it’s bound to be fun and interesting. #1 Son, of course, is now vegetarian. So that means I get to eat his turkey and stuffing!

And I wish everyone a safe and happy Thanksgiving.

Click the link below for the “Candied Sweet Potatoes” recipe.

Some things in life are just not explainable.

Why does the top of Moo Cow’s head smell like ketchup? It has since she was a kitten. Except when it smells like flowers. She’s an indoor cat with access to neither ketchup nor flowers. But there it is. Both of the other cats smell like… cat.

Why do spoons disappear, but not knives or forks? Why do the cups multiply in the cupboards, but I can never find a glass?

Where is it that socks go? Sometimes they turn up weeks after having disappeared. Are they going on vacation without me?

Why is it that a medium pizza isn’t enough for two (when one is a teenager) but a large is way too much. Can’t the pizza places sell a medium-large?

Where did my Cat Stevens CD go?

One of my cats, Moo Cow, just can’t figure out why she no longer fits places she could go when she was tiny.

When she was little kitten, she liked to sleep at night curled up in my shoulder with her head tucked under my ear. It was cute, so I let her do it even though it pissed the other cats off. Phoebe thinks she owns the bed. Moo knows she owns the house. They coexist under an armed truce. Captain Kidd wants the window sill, but since he is #3 on the Becker cat hierarchy he gives in gracefully to whoever argues with him about it.

So tiny Moo, queen of the house, slept on my shoulder and was cute. After a few weeks, I noticed that my arm was damn near paralyzed when I woke up. Moo was growing. Quickly. It was about to the point where Moo was going to get kicked off the bed whether she liked it or not when Moo decided that she was really #1 Son’s cat and moved in with him. My shoulder was spared.

Moo grew up to be a big girl. She weighs 15lbs, and she’s not fat.

After we got back from vacation, Moo decided that for some unknown queenly reason #1 Son was no longer the apple of her eye. She still likes him, mind you, but she demands attention from me too now.

The other night I woke up, and Moo was on the bed trying to figure out how she used to curl up on my shoulder. She circled around one way a few times and plopped down. Didn’t fit. Circled the other way and plopped down. Didn’t fit. Came at it from the headboard. Didn’t fit. Tried sneaking up from my feet. Didn’t fit.

Rather than being annoyed at being woken up, I had to laugh, because I could just hear her thinking, “I know I used to do this. How did I used to do this?”

I called a halt when she tried tucking her head under my ear while draping herself across my neck. 15lbs of cat on my neck? uh… no.

I’ve been searching through the bird books, but I haven’t found anything that looks like the bird I saw the other morning. Ok, I was half asleep and only had a brief look at it as it flew in front of the car. But I do remember that long, streaming tail.

The closest I’ve been able to come so far is:

(1) Barn swallow — tail too short and color a bit off.

(2) Scissor-tailed flycatcher — this is most like what I saw. Oregon is way out of its normal range, although apparently the bird has been sighted along the coast on rare occasions.

(3) Something truly exotic, like a whydah or quetzal, that has escaped from its aviary.

(4) I hallucinated. #1 Son, after all, did not see this bird.

The other question, of course, is what in the hell is living in my chimney? Last night as I watched TV in the family room, I kept hearing a noise like scratching on metal. I muted the TV, listened, and determined that the noise was coming from the chimney flue. I pondered the situation for a bit, and eventually decided that discretion was the better part of valor. I really didn’t want whatever is living in there loose in my family room — although the cats would probably enjoy it. It was 86 today, so I’m not likely to need a fire for a few months.

Note to self: Have chimney cleaned before the bad weather sets in this fall.