We’re in New York with family, and it’s safe to say even though it’s not home, it still feels like it. The tots adore all the new adoration and activities, the voices and coos singing through the house, the unfamiliar toys, and that dog that licks and wags its tail, the green bird that dances in its cage. They love crawling on their grandpa. It smells of raw onion, of Thanksgiving preparation, this morning. Yesterday we went shopping for winter coats and hats. Booties. Century 21 really can be bliss for one and for all. We hit the Seacrest Diner, an establishment within walking distance from my high school, where everything seemed like it should be, like home feels. Medium rare. Then we all crowded around a dinner table at home for some damn good Italian food, the kind indigenous to New York and somehow nonexistent in Texas. Oversized platters of shrimp, chicken, and veal parmigiana, bowls of filette di pomodoro, wet and juicy, linguine a la vongole. Italian American. Nothing fancy, just fattening. I loved the beans there in their high chairs, surrounded by the six of us: my father and Carol, my step-sister Amanda and her fiance James, and of course, Phil and me. Tomorrow there will be cousins and more step-sisters, more food, some football, and for me (hopefully) a movie outing. It’s tradition when I’m not the one cooking. I hope yours is as lovely and warm and dysfunctional.
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