The great gizzard heist of 1973…

If the only prayer you said in your whole life was, “thank you,” that would suffice. ~Meister Eckhart

It is Thanksgiving, a time to gather.  Mothers and grandmothers fortunate enough to be invited some place will load up their sweet potatoes and lime jello salads and lefse.   We are going to my sister’s for the day, and so I’m taking my pies on the road this Thanksgiving.

Pies aren’t good travelers when compared to other baked goods.  They are fragile and flaky, for one thing. There’s always the risk that someone might stack something on top of a pie if you aren’t paying attention. Then what do you have to show for all that rolling and patting and filling?   Mush and regret.  That’s what.

And so, I’m thinking of making my kids ride over the river and through the woods with pies on their laps. They’ll complain, but they’ll thank me after dinner when it is pie time.  I just know it.

My sister will wake at dawn to do unmentionable things to the naked, ice cold bird before she shoves it in the oven.  She’ll count to see how many cousins she can fit around the table and boil potatoes. Lots of potatoes.  During dinner, there will be good wine, which will lead to the re-telling of ridiculous stories like the one about a particularly naughty family beagle who climbed onto the dining room table on Thanksgiving day in 1973, stuck his head in the fully cooked turkey, and made off with the gizzard. It was a brazen act, even for a beagle.

Oh, to be so ridiculously and undeservedly blessed on a day like Thanksgiving.  To eat good food and drink good wine and laugh over missing gizzards. At some point, I will look around my sister’s table at the faces bathed in candlelight and give silent thanks for each sweet soul gathered there.  For another Thanksgiving that finds us happy, healthy and whole.

And then, we will eat pie.

Happy Thanksgiving.

 

 

 

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