...and he sang this sad, sad tu-u-une,
Thanksgiving Day is coming,
gobble, gobble, gobble, gobble,
and I know I'll be eaten so-o-o-on.
Gobble, gobble, gobble, gobble, gobble, gobble, gobble,
I would like to run awa-a-a-ay.
Gobble, gobble, gobble, gobble,
I don't like Thanksgiving Day!
Now it's officially Thanksgiving Day. I miss having Mom call when she got out of bed to sing and I forgot to sing to DD or DS when they called but you can bet the Turkey Song will be sung more than once today and for the next few days. SomeBaby liked it when I sang it to her the other day. She needs to learn it, tout suite. Just as soon as she can talk.
I just glanced out the window and I think our neighborhood looks like a calendar page with the fresh snow and bright sunshine. What do you think?
November 27--Edouard Manet, The Brioche. Louisa's bread sat like a crown in the center of the table. Its fragrance perfumed the whole house and drew everyone to the dining room. She gently folded a linen napkin around it to keep it warm while the rest of the dishes were brought in from the kitchen. The roast was sliced and carried on a heaping platter, only the loaf of bread made the journey from oven to table whole so that it could be sliced with some ceremony before all of the guests, each one hoping to be allowed to eat the heel in all its crunchy magnificence.
That reminds me of the times when Dad baked bread and we'd all gather around to jockey for a heel. One of my brothers' friends would show up no matter what time the bread was done, once at 11 o'clock at night, for a slice of just-baked bread. Our company's a couple hours away and I hear Durwood heating up a bowl of chili for lunch. I think I'll join him.
Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours! Eat lots of pie.