Port Aransas, Texas
Coastal Fog
The forecast for Thanksgiving Day 2022 in Port Aransas is crummy. Crummy. Crummy. Rain. Rain. And more rain. Cold. I’m not sure I want to get out of bed. But I open my eyes and see foggy—not rainy—skies out the balcony window and Michael sitting on one of the high bamboo chairs with his feet on the railing. This tells me several things; the most important one is that it is halfway warm. And Michael is happy. He loves foggy days more than anything.
I quickly change into jeans and a sweater and make the bed. Then I look for coffee. I meet Michael as he walks through the sliding glass door into the living area. He gets more coffee, and I pull up the other bamboo chair. We sip our hot liquid. Enjoy the temperate day and talk about the fog. He shows me photos of the tanker half buried in fog—only his superstructure peaks above the low-lying cloud.
Dinner Preparations
At 12:30, Michael slips away to sit by the sea, and I retire to the kitchen, remembering it is my responsibility to fix Thanksgiving dinner. It should be easy; I prepared several things ahead. I need to bake the cornbread dressing—my favorite part of the feast, and then tuck the sweet potatoes into the oven at the same time. I also need to assemble the ubiquitous green bean casserole made with mushroom soup, a touch of soy sauce and topped with French’s Fried Onion Rings—Michael’s request. And then I need to bake the all-important, already smoked turkey breast.
Everything should be a snap, and then I unwrap the smoked Butterball turkey breast and read the heating instructions. I must rub it with vegetable oil to have crisp turkey skin. I frown. We have no oil. Nada. But we do have butter—lots of butter—I make ghee. It works.
When Michael comes in from his walk, I announce that dinner will be served at 2 pm. Meanwhile, I pour the last of the wine we ordered for dinner at The Venetian Hot Plate last night, put some BBQ potato chips in a bowl—grab my camera—aka smartphone—and take our humble appetizer out to the balcony. We sit and enjoy the sun, the warmth, and all the activity it brings forth. We’re happy the weather forecaster got today’s forecast so very wrong.
Thanksgiving Dinner
Thanksgiving dinner is perfect—even though we can’t eat outside as planned–one of the reasons I chose this condo. There is a tall table along with the tall bamboo chairs, but not tall enough for dining—oh well. The baked sweet potatoes were easy—and the green bean casserole tastes like Thanksgiving of years past even though the only thing I had for a casserole dish in a condo rental was a small stainless steel frying pan—but it worked. I love the dressing, and the turkey is moist! Unbelievable.
Michael is even willing to eat my cranberry chutney, but I surprise him with his preferred Ocean Spray Cranberry Sauce. When we finish the last bite, I realize I forgot the dinner rolls. Michael says it’s never too late. He heats them for a few seconds, brings them to the table, and we have rolls topped with gravy for dessert.
Fog—Comes and Goes
We grab our wine, head to the balcony, and watch as the fog rolls back in. A myriad of tankers get lost in the clouds. It is fascinating to watch their progress, and it is so strange how the fog seems to hover over the ship channel more than anyplace else.
As we continue to linger and watch, the fog begins to lift again. My spirit soars—this means that an evening trip to the Leonabelle Turnbull Birding Center to watch the sunset flight of the white pelicans is a distinct possibility. I hurry inside to clean up the kitchen—Michael is at my elbow helping—doing all of the heavy lifting. It is my job to figure out how to remove the rest of the turkey from the bone. We need this turkey for a planned picnic on Sunday before we drive north toward Wimberley and home.
Leonabelle Turnbull Birding Center
Arriving at the birding center, it looks like no one is here, other than a bevy of kids bouncing a soccer ball that follow us down the trail. This is not what I envisioned—I was hoping for peace and beauty, not giggles and shouts and bouncing balls. We walk one way, and they walk the other. Bored with their surroundings, they leave.
We stop at one of the two pavilions at the birding center to survey our surroundings, and looking down we see Boots, the alligator, below us. This is very much up close and personal. Maybe, too close. His skin (scales?) look like a suit of medieval armor—this alligator looks invincible. If by chance we met face to face I feel he could swallow me whole.
An Evening Ballet
Discovering this evening ritual last year, we are anxious to experience it again. It is like a ballet—a slow dance performed in movements. The orchestration is a mystery—the reason behind it more so. The elegant white pelicans—America’s largest bird—congregate in two large groups, spending the day together on opposites banks of the wide pond.
At a certain point before sunset, the group on the far bank begins the ballet. At some unknown signal, one of the large white birds enters the water, another follows, and then another until there is a large group swimming around. This dance continues until one of the pelicans glides to the front of the assembly and readies himself for flight. Soon all the giant white birds are in the air, winging their way west into the sun—only today there is no sun—gorgeous blue clouds paint the sky. Other spectators come and go—look and leave.
The opening act is slow to begin; apparently the dancers are in no hurry. We patiently wait—we are here for the duration. Gradually the drama unfolds. One by one they begin; their slow deliberate movements remind me of Ravel’s masterpiece, Bolero, brought to life.
Rather than seeing the small groups of giant white pelicans against a fiery sky, we watch them fade into blue. When only five of the original masses are left—the laggards, the ones who don’t want to take center stage—decide to exit stage right, and we can see no more, we leave our front row seat and head for home.
It has been the best of days.
Be my guest, listen to Bolero and imagine the day.
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