Thanksgiving. So, like other holidays where we are reminded to be nice to one another, Thanksgiving is a day to take pause and be thankful for all the things in our lives that enrich us; a celebration honouring our bountiful harvests of food and love. Thanksgiving is a regular ‘cornucopia’ of joy. Uh-huh.
If you have been reading my blog, you will know that I am not much of a domestic diva. I don’t cook and my housekeeping skills are a little on the lack-lustre side. I rather suck at making small-talk and even with my best foot forward I often 'fall down' when it comes to exhibiting appropriate facial expressions and tone of voice. For me, Thanksgiving only serves to highlight my gross inadequacies as it pertains to the stereotypical duties of June Cleaver style wifery.
Dinner on Sunday is at my house for my parents, in-laws, Jason and our five children. Jason is cooking the turkey and the vegetables. My job is stuffing. After much consulting with my friends, I have decided on a recipe which does not require any measuring of ingredients. Like the pilgrim’s of generations long ago, I hunted out the firmest bunch of celery and gathered up the multiple loaves of bread which will be required to feed my eleven hungry guests. To me, the fact that I hunted and gathered at Sobey’s opposed to harvesting foodstuffs from fields ploughed by my own hands and flock of oxen (do oxen live in flocks?), is totally moot.
As a loyal follower of King Burger I struggle with understanding the feeling of peaceful bliss which many people report having upon providing nourishment to their families. I am hopeful that my success in whipping up a delicious yeasty mixture of traditional stuffing, followed up with the subsequent jamming of said mixture up the rump-end of a gigantic piece of dead poultry, will aid in my understanding of this joy which up to this point in my life, has alluded me. I will let you know how I make out.
Wishing you all a bountiful horn of plenty today and every day of the year.
