Nine days until Thanksgiving. The bird is ordered from the butcher on Armitage, sixteen people are coming, and Marina has the linens. She looked at an old gravy stain on the heirloom cloth and said, “I remember this stain.” I was glad I hadn't tried to explain it as something new.
My son has announced that he is bringing a centerpiece he printed. We had already agreed that anything from the printer coming into this house must be suitable for explaining to his grandmother at the table. I suspected he had divided the files accordingly. He has now confirmed there are “Thanksgiving” and “not Thanksgiving” folders.
I asked for a photograph. It is a cornucopia in wood-tone filament, with individual gourds, and it is lovely. Each gourd comes from a designer he follows. He can account for all of them, down to who made the original drawing. I would like someone to be this thorough about where my cake stand went.
I still want to see everything in the vestibule before it goes on the table. His grandmother has asked for “first look, before Ashley sanitizes anything interesting.”
I had thought we were on the same side of this arrangement.
— Ash