Thanksgiving

I don’t think that dour little band of pilgrims back in 1621 represents the cradle of American civilization. They were a sanctimonious cult that totally irritated first the English (easily done) then the Dutch (you have to work at that one). Maybe they stayed on in America simply because they didn’t understand the Abnaki words for “Go home.”

One thing about the Pilgrims, though, I approve of their menu and their holiday.

Today, in second grade pageants across the country, little girls in floppy cloth caps will be telling little boys in construction paper hats, “Speak for yourself, John Alden.” Then an out of tune piano will strike up Over the River and Through the Woods. (Yes, I checked with my friend who has two small kids. This is still all the rage.) And what the kids lack in perfect pitch, they’ll make up for in volume.

Tomorrow, it’s time to put olives on the tip of each finger and wait for the other families to arrive. When I was a child, the women blew in through the front door on a cloud of fur and perfume and laughing voices. The men wore suits -- but they’d get more interesting as the night wore on.

And when we sat down for dinner, there were two tables: one for adults, one for children. My dad would bring out the turkey on a trolley, and make quite a show of carving – all flashing knives and perfectly shaped pieces of dark and light meat. Oddly, he never used the electric knife my sister and I gave him one Christmas. I guess the batteries were dead or something.

The children’s table would get watered-down wine, and in addition to everything else, the drumsticks, the wings, and the wishbone.

I always won the wishbone pull. Am I the only one who ever cheated at that? Probably.

Happy Thanksgiving.