Yesterday, I gave thanks with a friend's large Sicilian family with deep roots in San Francisco.
We ate shrimp and more shrimp, pasta and more pasta, ham, deep fried turkey, mashed potatoes, winter squash, San Francisco sourdough, several desserts, and we drank lots of wine. The family extolled the virtues of a particular old school Italian spot for pasta, claimed there was only one good bakery to go to for sourdough, and explained facetiously that the difference between old and ancient vines was 40 years. I learned who to ask for help if I wanted to find a good flush of porcini. At the table, four people in as many generations of family members shared the same first name. Jokes, told a thousand times before, rolled out, polished and perfect. I laughed so hard.
Last night I came home very late after the meal that lasted for hours. My dog was happy to see me. My cat crawled into bed and immediately started to snore. I fell into dreamless sleep and didn't wake up—not once—until well into today.
I'm so grateful.