This is going to be a long list

I'm thankful for...

My mom. She's a dang saint, I swear.

All the amazing people that visit my Dad to read to him or help with his speech therapy or
just give my Mom some free time.

I'm thankful for that one time Tom came over and sifted my contact
out of my sink drain with a pair of nylons.

I'm thankful for Nick helping us out with our Jeep.

Indoor volleyball that keeps my kids busy.

homemade cranberry orange sorbet.

18 more months.

Joyce because she truly loves my kids.

Boston because he is trying hard to keep the
lines of communication open even though that has always been very hard for him.

Mason because he is still helping me to get past my dislike of hugs.

Sidney because she always reminds us of FHE and prayer time.

Sunny skies.

one very warm pair of black Ugg boots

hilarious friends. The ones I see all the time and the ones I don't see too often.

My husband's closed mouth smile.

Incredibly frank discussions.

my stapling and question asking skills. ( Elise, what was that last skill again? I forgot.)

long phone conversations with my sisters.

dirt.

Heavenly Father.

President Thomas S Monson.

The holy ghost.

My family's health.

Singular. Helps keep Mason and Sid's asthma under control.

President Dalton.

good music.

Should I keep going. I don't want to bore you to death. I'm feeling very grateful these days. I think you get the idea. I'll stop here.

Every Wednesday at 5:00 Sid goes to dance. Every Wednesday at 4:45 I say "Sid come put on your leotard." Every Wednesday at approximately 4:45 and a half Mason says " LEOTARD" in a silly, embarrassed voice and then giggles.

Sid doesn't have dance tomorrow. She will miss dancing, sweating, friends, tired legs and I will miss Mason's giggle.

Let's talk turkey

I think maybe it's Oregon's fault. It could be Jamie Oliver's fault. My heritage may have something to do with it. I'm not really sure. All I know is that I have a dream of raising a tiny little baby turkey (a poult). Bring it up right. Feed it amazingly well and then EAT IT for Thanksgiving.

I put partial blame on Oregon for spoiling me with easy access to all things fresh and natural. I'll admit it, I caught a slight case of granolaitis. (Do you know that when we first learned we were moving to OR my hilarious brother in law, David, gave me a box of granola bars so I would feel right at home? I just remembered that. Funny!)

A portion of the blame must go to my favorite chef ever, Jamie Oliver. I think that in general people eat too much meat. I'm not a veg head but I don't think we realize how many animals are slaughtered just to fill our grocery store shelves. I love the idea of having to see what must die in order for us to eat it. I think that would severely reduce my meat intake. This is where Mr. Oliver fits in. He has dead animal photos splayed all over his cook books. While it took me awhile to get used to that ( or not gag), I like it. It makes me think.

My heritage certainly plays a role. I did spend more than a usual amount of time in a slaughter house. My family raised beef cattle. I'm sorry to say this but I loved that slaughter house. For one thing it was freezing and when you live in Phoenix anywhere that's called freezing is also called heaven. It also had a fabulously salty, meaty, cold smell. Best of all, it had a massive, heavy, red gate-like back door that we entered from the back alley. I mean c'mon, how cool is that?
I also consider myself a farm girl so naturally I want to raise a turkey.

My turkey will not have a name. I will try my dangdist to kill it myself (with help, of course). The plucking may still be an issue.