I spent Saturday learning how to turn a live, strutting-around turkey into a Thanksgiving, ready-for-the-oven turkey. It was messy and graphic-- what I expected-- but also overwhelmingly positive and supportive, as the small group of us learned the hows and whys of the process from the farmers who taught us. I'm telling you this not because I recommend spending your Saturday in a similar fashion, (though it's not that bad, really) but because it will help you to understand the violent margarita craving that surfaced, after showering and changing at a friend's house, later on that evening.
I love these weekends in Ithaca. I thrive on alone time, and getting things done on "the homestead" in Gilbertsville. But a consistent diet of alone time and homestead projects can add up to isolation pretty quickly. My life needs regular interjections of silly girl time, and live music, and margaritas. I need, sometimes, to wear my clicky-heeled boots and trot down the streets of that city where I loved and lost and played and biked and worked and studied and courted and eventually left. Gilbertsville holds the perfect, beautiful, self-sufficient promise of my future. But sweet Ithaca holds almost everything that's important about my past.
It's a lot of responsibility for one little city to handle. Fortunately, it's up to the challenge. Margaritas, cupcakes, hot cider, pumpkin beer, and lots of trotting around in clicky-heeled boots. Sleeping on a friend's couch. Eating where I used to work, and ordering my very favorite bagel sandwich combination that I miss with smoldering ferocity. Shopping at my favorite fabric store. It's like that. These little details add up to so much joy.