Happy Turkey Day

Oh yes, another Thanksgiving away from Mom's house. I miss this holiday soooooo much. CHRISTmas is CHRISTmas anywhere, because He is everywhere. But Thanksgiving... well, that's strictly US.
I can try duplicating the Thanksgiving dinner, (The first time I attempted here in Barcelona I had so saw off half of the drumstick bones because the 12 lbs. bird did now fit into my small oven), but it's not the same. No cranberries here. No pumpkin pie spice. No brown sugar to make most of the desserts that I love. And, I can never make Thanksgiving dinner on Thanksgiving Day. I must wait until the following Saturday, as I must work on Thursday.
So I've given up trying to make our Thanksgiving dinner authentic. I simply make turkey, mashed potatoes with gravy and a simple apple pie.
What I will do is go to Mass on Thursday and Saturday and give the Lord thanks for the usual things and some that are not so usual. Here's the rundown:
Him
My son and husband
Family
Friends
Health
Job
My little ones
My coworkers
Internet (I can keep in touch with anybody)
My calling plan (I can call Mom and talk to her for 30 minutes each day)
The newsstand guy (he saves a Martha Stewart Living magazine each month and hard to find trading cards for Julian)
All the podcasting priests
All podcasting Catholics
All Catholic podcasts
...

At the end of the day, each day not just Thanksgiving, what really counts is that we recognize how lucky we are that we have so much to be thankful for.

The Border re-visited!

Ten days ago, my friend Carl paid me a visit. Had a great time with him, mostly chatted about grad school experiences. It was as if we had just picked up where our last conversation left off. Well, not quite. My Spanish has greatly improved and I'm not as reserved as I was nine years back.
Carl's comments about writing, about my constant treading on borders that got me thinking again. Really thinking.
Sure, born in El Paso, Texas, physical border. Growing up in an American environment with Mexican parents teaching and expecting us to live in a displaced Mexican culture. Becoming aware of being Chicana (feeling Mexican, feeling American, belonging to nothing and the possibility of belonging to both at the same time. See JBN, I was listening!).
Then marrying a Spaniard. From Catalonia (border culture here too). Moving to Barcelona and being Chicana is all of the sudden not important anymore. So, what now? American, that's it!
But, in every conversation I had with any Spaniard, I had to defend the American government. Hard enough to do with Clinton and his Oval Office tryst (What was her name? Oh who cares... Miss I'll-Keep-The-Blue-Dress-Just-In-Case) but absolutely impossible with the Texas Butcher at the helm.
So, back to being Mexican. But that wasn't right either. Easy solution. Become Spanish. That's right, Spanish citizenship. What the heck. It's just a paper anyway!

Fins aviat!