I'm getting the leg that folds up...

On Thanksgiving at our house we like variety, 

so we don't have turkey every year. Last year we had swan. It was nice; 

everyone got some neck. Another year we had seagull. Delicious! 

It's a little fishy, but at least there's no need to add salt. . . 

This year we're expecting a few people over, so we're having flamingo. 

And I'm getting the leg that folds up. They say the meat is sweeter 

and more tender because the flamingo doesn't use it much.

George Carlin

Happy Thanksgiving from Willow Manor

endless potatoes

Beige

I stand

just as I have

for many years

in a noisy kitchen

full of familiar faces

repeated stories

caught in hot air

bubbles, heavy

in the scent of sage

and wonder

of future turkeys

endless potatoes

to be mashed

stirring at the stove

the more beige

I become

the more invisible

tk/November 2011


The brilliant R.A.D. Stainforth reads this poem:
(Check out his excellent blog Black Dogs here.)

Speaking of endless potatoes, here is another wonderful variation of the quintessential mashed: 

Boil 3 pounds of new red potatoes in skins, drain and mash with 1 cup grated Parmesan, 3/4 cup ricotta, 3/4 cup whole milk, and one stick unsalted butter, salt and freshly ground pepper to taste.

Best Thanksgiving wishes to you and yours, my friends.  

I say grace...

You say grace before meals.

All right.

But I say grace before the play and the opera,

And grace before the concert and pantomime,

And grace before I open a book,

And grace before sketching, painting,

Swimming, fencing, boxing, walking, playing, dancing;

And grace before I dip the pen in ink.

G. K. Chesterton, from an early notebook circa 1890s

I giggle at the thought of someone near and dear to those at Willow Manor, who never misses the chance to say grace before every meal, and who enjoys delivering extra loud, long graces in public places.  We all know those of a certain generation, who say a pre-meal grace almost superstitiously, like tossing salt over one's shoulder, or knocking on wood.  It's a lovely, nearly extinct tradition, that for today, may have lost its original purpose, its poetical beauty, and meaning.

With October already amazingly behind us, November brings thoughts of the Thanksgiving holiday, considering the year's "harvest".  In this modern age, most of us are not concerned on a daily basis with the actual process of cultivating our meals from the soil of the earth.  But I like the notion, just like G. K. Chesterton, of embracing the fruits of our labors, the embodiment of creativity, the beauty of daily routine, our personal harvests, so to speak, with a certain grace and appreciation. Yes, I say... grace.


image:  from my Abandoned America series, "Gloves in a Barn", Dublin, Ohio

Happy Thanksgiving

Gratitude unlocks the fullness of life.  
It turns what we have into enough, and more.  It turns denial into acceptance, chaos to order, confusion to clarity.  
It can turn a meal into a feast, 
a house into a home, 
a stranger into a friend.  
Gratitude makes sense of our past, 
brings peace for today 
and creates a vision for tomorrow. 

Melody Beattie

horn of plenty

A lop-sided shoe box holds
the leftovers of a lack-luster
childhood: a scout pin,
more pot-metal than brass,
two loose patches never stitched
to a sash. The sun goes down.
No recitals, no blue ribbons,
just a school snapshot, creased

across the face and a ragged proof
of baptism, by immersion. Contemplate
the cornucopia, shiny, in a trophy case.
Breathe a huff of moisture on the glass,
take out your hankie and polish 

a round view, browse, deep, until
you see the bounty of a fruitful womb;
loving cups line your table, play
hopscotch in your keep.

Tess Kincaid

November 2010

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