Wednesday I am going to visit my parents for Thanksgiving.  I look forward to it–despite what I say to acquaintances–because I have miss my family.

Besides, you can choose your friends, but you can’t choose your family, or so the saying goes.

Every Thanksgiving is the essentially the same thing:  I visit my parents, my mom cooks, I spend my time watching lots of cable (I don’t have it here, so when I do have access I tend to go a bit overboard), I eat,  the family members that can bother to actually visit eat, we may play some Spades, and I head back home.

This time is going to be different because I offered to cook desert–anything to break the routine a bit–which I did this because I don’t trust my self to cook a turkey without killing someone, though I want to make more of a contribution than my presence.

Though, now that I have, I have come to understand why routines become tradition in the first place.

They provide comfort, and continuity.  They remain consistent in times that are anything but, and we find peace in them.

I hope that I can add a new one.


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