Polishing Silver

We're finally here in South Norwalk after a fairly PACKED train ride down from Boston and I'm helping my friend set the table for Thanksgiving dinner tomorrow. My friend Dede in Connecticut has a pile of sisters like I do. Her mother's silverware ... one sister mentions it needs to be polished, a standard ploy, criticism without an offer of help ... we both look at one another. Seems like so much work and maybe even after we bother that sister will still find it lacking.

But I say, let me do the knives. I know what will happen. It's like a haircut where you cut a little off on this side and then the other side really needs a little chop .... The knives will look so good, we'll have to do the spoons and then ... and that's just what happens.

In their big house, one son is upstairs on the phone to his girlfriend, the dad is down in the basement with two buddies working out, they actually USE their treadmill and weighlifting equipment, another son is in the kitchen with me and Dede making pecan pies. I'm stealing pecans, they taste great. Martha Stewart is on the kitchen TV teaching us how to make something ... cranberry something, I'm not watching. My son's wandering between cartoons on the TV in the den and helping us dry the silver.

The knives shine with a glorious glow. There's no going back. We do the big forks, we do the salad forks, we do the dessert forks, we do the big spoons, the little spoons. All of it like a lovely orchestra and shiny sound, but in fact, silent. We talk about whether they're giving Martha Stewart a fair shake or just giving her a hard time, we decide they are harrassing her and should quit. We are Connecticut daughters in arms.

Her sister was right, ishining the silver makes all the difference. The pie is baking. It smells good. The silver is almost done. The table looks great. We're washing twenty wine glasses and twenty water goblets. We're getting glad it's Thanksgiving.