Nearly everything in my kitchen is designed for single meals. This is the result of my slow efforts over the last few years. I have a half dozen tablespoon measurements because I use the mostly in lieu of cups, and half cups, and quarter cups. I have measures for one eighth a teaspoon, and one sixteenth which is, I believe, considered to be a “pinch” even though it’s several of mine. My actual pinch would be called a smidge, or one thirty second of a teaspoon, which I don’t use spoons for at all.

So, adjusting for cooking tomorrow’s Thanksgiving required a little finagling. Three people isn’t much to cook for, but when you’re used to the half appetite of one person who is in a seemingly-perpetual state of physical healing, it’s quite the change.

Beyond the math, there’s the actual issue of space.

I think I’ve explained how small my apartment is, as often as I explain how loved it is. From my stove, I can turn on the kitchen sink. From the sink, I can open the fridge door. And the space between those dimensions is the square footage of the rest of it.

I bought foil cake pans for most of the food, because where I would store a full sized cake pan?

And tonight I made a cake. Well, two.

My first cake, I threw.

Not on purpose.

It seemed like a very nice cake, and I’m not certain I would even considering chucking a bad one to the ground, but the aftermath of strokes is a reckoning and my nerves don’t feel like healing yet. They’re still working through some stuff.

The second cake had to be baked in a larger cake pan because it’s the only one unclaimed. Seeing the size of it reminded me of the only official cake pan we had growing up. An oval-ish metal pan made of who-knows-what that had the word “Congrats!” embedded in it. I think that probably says something about my family home. Either how little we prioritized traditional cakes, or how often we celebrated, I don’t know.

Mamasaur’s specialty was always Texas sheet cake, a nod to the state that rooted us first.

This will be my third consecutive year celebrating without family proper, and though this is not my first Thanksgiving hosting, it will be the first where I cooked everything.

I’m not sure why it felt necessary. Neither the boyfriend nor the roommate would mind pad thai, or tikki masala, ordered in from one of the dozens of places in my city that make either.

But this year feels different. This year has almost numbed the idea of home to me, and I wanted to thank it for being one I have taken for granted by default of staying within its walls so much. I wanted to give something to my guys, something I lovingly made with my own hands, so they could see the words I say often.

And though my body is protesting such efforts, I am happily lovingly exhausted.

And I wish they were tenfold, a hundred-fold. I wish there were room in my apartment for all of us, and I could put a warm dinner roll in your hands and tell you how grateful I am.

I wish you health. I wish you safety and peace. I wish you feast and joy and a home that holds you warm.

I am so glad you are here. Not just here at this blog, but here.

Thank you for being.