Irene is hosting Poetry Friday here .
Thanksgiving night – the farm under a full moon
It being our first Thanksgiving at the farm, I prepared for the day especially well. Around these parts, where the nearest supermarket is forty minutes away, that meant making sure that whatever we needed for our feast was on hand.
Things went awry at breakfast, when we discovered that the kids had been in an extra eggy mood, which left us eggless.
They were also in the mood for extra helpings of bacon, which left us without any to bard the turkey.
Speaking of which, we had left the turkey on our porch since there was no space in our refrigerator to house the bird. We had not thought to remember that below zero degree temperatures had been predicted for the night before Thanksgiving, which left us with a frozen solid bird.
So…Thanksgiving day became an exercise in adjusting plans, and settling for the less than perfect. It turned out, no one noticed or minded. After years and years of over thinking the perfect feast, I just enjoyed it for what it was – a chance to be together with our family. I think this poem captures something of that:
Thanksgiving by Billy Collins
The thing about the huge platter of sliced celery, broccoli florets, and baby tomatoes you had arranged to look like a turkey with its tail fanned out was that all our guests were so intimidated by the perfection of the design no one dared disturb the symmetry
by removing so much as the nub of a carrot.