My Thanksgiving began with a very small service at church Wednesday night which I almost missed because I was at Aimee's house waiting for her cat Noodge to show up after having been locked out of the house for two days. After the Thanksgiving Eve service I watched "West Wing" for the first time all season and observed that the writing just isn't as snappy as it used to be. Either that or life without television is affecting me more than I realize.

For years my family's Thanksgiving tradition was to have dinner at Forest Home, a Christian conference center in San Bernardino Brent and I practically grew up at, and then spend the rest of the weekend in Palm Desert. We'd hike around the Living Desert, see a movie, eat Italian food, do a little shopping. Now we eat lunch together at Mimi's Cafe in Foster City and watch some TV back at the parents' place. Brent and I tried to get Mom and Dad interested in "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" this year, but I don't think it worked as well as when we hooked Dad on "The X-Files."

Brent and I attended Meriko and Russell's insanely sumptuous Thanksgiving dinner that evening (Ridiculous Mushrooms!) before driving all the way out to Sacramento to see Amber and Dina spin for a tiny audience at Ricci's. Those two are always worth a trip, but I was slamming Pringles and Red Bull all the way home to keep myself awake.

Friday morning I woke up and started cooking for the Abattoir's Thanksgiving 2.0. Rosemary, maple, and pear clafouti. Baked herb polenta. Potatoes with rosemary and lavender. Recipes and organic ingredients courtesy of Planet Organics. When the party got too much for us Brent and I took off and went to see Moulin Rouge with Carol and Dan. It's back in theaters for a week to drum up some Oscar nominations, and I took the opportunity to see it for the third time. Ewan McGregor just makes my knees weak. It was great seeing it on the big screen again, much better than the tiny screen on my Virgin flight back from London. I did miss the sassy gay flight attendant who had seen my tears on the plane and had quickly ascertained their source. "Sweetie, are you watching Moulin Rouge? Oh my God, I totally understand! Here's a tissue."

I turned Brent loose inside Skillz on Saturday afternoon while I idly listened to a white label or two. He walked out of there with a few records to supplement the ones I had brought back for him from London. We lazed around my apartment for a bit watching first-season "Sopranos" episodes before heading off to the city for an amazing meal (and a gorgeous waitress named Jitka) at Le Petit Robert and a little Bernadette Peters at the Orpheum. She was fighting what sounded like a nasty cold, but even when her voice was cracking one minute it was soaring the next. Resplendent in her Bob Mackie gowns, bantering with the audience, breaking my heart with "Not A Day Goes By" from Sondheim's Merrily We Roll Along, she had me in the palm of her hand. At the end of the show she gifted a fortunate man in the audience with a signed Christmas ball. When he jokingly asked to kiss her and ducked away in embarrassment at his own forthrightness, she purred, "What are you so afraid of?" and then gave him a solid smack on the lips. Here's hoping I get so lucky this Christmas.

The Living Desert
Ridiculous Mushrooms
Bernadette Peters