Cranberries

Thanksgiving.

Here it is.

I can hear Billie Holiday playing from down in the kitchen. It's my Tony Bennett Pandora station. I'm up in my office. Because I needed a minute. Or ten. Or maybe longer. I'd like to blame it on the bourbon but, it's not that. It's Thanksgiving.

Thanksgiving was my dad's favorite. He loved turkey. Like, holy hell, did that guy love turkey. Old Man Parker, you'll get worms, level of turkey love. It was like religion to him.

He wasn't a foodie, no, not at all. He wasn't a snob about food. He was a comfort food guy. Meat, potatoes, sweets. He would have had no use for artisan ketchups or any other Portlandia food item. Food carts? No, not for him. Turkey and potatoes and stuffing. And, cranberries. Not fresh. Not cooked on a stove. Just, from a can. Shaped like a can.

This is our fifth Thanksgiving without him. And, the fifth time I've eaten cranberry sauce from a can. I'm not sure why I never tried it. All those years, I think he was the only person who ate it. It was sliced up on a plate, sitting on the table. Just for him.

And, every year, I ignored it. I passed it by. I'm certain I made fun of him for it. I mean, come on, it's not even really food. It doesn't even require chewing.

It's things like that that you miss the most. The things you think will never end. Giving him a hard time over cranberries. One year you do, the next year you can't.

So, this year, I sliced up that can of Jellied Cranberry Sauce and ate three slices. And, tomorrow, I'll eat the rest. I'll think of my dad. I'll think of the littlest details. Like how that guy could eat pumpkin pie with a pile of whipped cream and turkey sandwiches for days.

I'll be thankful for the time we had.

I'll make sure that my kids know how much I love them.

I'll work on being thankful. For the littlest things.

Like cranberries.

And, memories.