and joyful memories there

          A couple days ago, while buying some shampoo at Target, I ran across a butternut squash for sixty cents a pound. So I bought one. It was tiny and was demanding to be eaten. I made it for dinner last night.
          I called my mom and got a recipe out of our ancient Betty Crocker cookbook (the binding is falling apart and the heavy pages have turned the color of cream) - I knew what to do, but had forgotten the correct temperature and time for the oven. The Betty Crocker recipe was pretty boring, just salt and butter. I made mine with butter, salt, brown sugar, nutmeg, cinnamon, ginger, and cloves.
          Patricia and I split it and had a mug each of eggnog. It was great.

          Other things that happened last night:
          In the midst of a long, good discussion with Patricia, I leaned back in my chair, which fell over and dumped me into a bunch of corners. The corner of my desk, the corner of my microwave, the corner of my fridge, the corner of my bookshelf. I had no idea my room had so many corners. And I learned that they all hurt. I have an interesting but weirdly unimpressive (disappointingly, they feel worse than they look) collection of bruises.
          I also decided to drop the thesis. I'm still writing one, but it's called a portfolio now, and I don't have to deal with the intermediate deadlines a thesis entails. It's upsetting - I want to do the final defense, want the panel to read what I've written and criticize it. I want to field questions and think on my feet, to defend my writing. But I can't deal with these deadlines. I write sporadically, in spurts, and I haven't met the required page count at this point. I can get the final page requirement, no problem, but not at the rate at which they want me to finish.
          I was under the impression that a thesis was the culmination of your skill, a demonstration of your independence and maturity as a writer. I understand that meeting deadlines is probably a good indicator of maturity, but I feel like I should be able to be left to my own devices. If I can write it by the end, then awesome. If I can't, then it's my fault. If I finish but it's full of errors and flaws, then, again, it's my fault. But I dislike this emphasis on writing X amount of pages in Y amount of time - it seems counterintuitive to the creative process. I think it should be the quality of the writing that's important - not the rate at which it's produced.
          So I'm doing a portfolio instead. The same amount of pages, without the internal deadlines.

          I'm looking forward to Thanksgiving break. I've been saying that too much lately. But I am. I'm starting to feel claustrophobic, being here at school. I need that change of pace, different air, home, old friends, family. The fireplace. The city. The woods. The park. High, light ceilings. Familiar banisters. Wide, clean countertops. My backyard. Warm wood floors. The lake. The piano. The stove.
          My parents have been trying to sell the house for a few years now. I guess I'm not really attached to the building; if it burned down, for example, I wouldn't be that upset. But I've realized how dear it is to me as the setting of some of my happiest memories. And even if we weren't selling it, I've realized that this is the last time I'll celebrate Thanksgiving and Christmas in this house while I call it home. After this, even if I come back (if my parents don't move), it won't be my home. It'll be my parent's house - welcoming, full of nostalgia and memories, sure. But not my own safe space, not the anchor, not the place I navigate by.
          I have this ... wistful? ... feeling when I think about it. Like each moment at home will be precious, rare. You see things differently, more fondly, when you know you're nearing the end.