Moose in the Kitchen

I’m currently on a farm in Oregon. Misty mountains and fields of unfriendly cows beckon, but I’m only interested in the couch. And the snacks.

Nine driving hours were required to haul ourselves, the dog, and the accompanying massive appetites up to a farm whose suitably farm-like accoutrements include staring livestock, cast-iron stove merrily roasting tree carcasses, and wireless internet access. I did none of the driving. Yes, I may appear to be a no-good lazy bum who doesn’t do her fair share, but I was only looking at the bigger picture. The bigger picture in which we were all still alive at the end of our journey. My night vision is non-existent, I’m not good at driving in the rain, and the dog needed me to entertain her. (Entertaining the dog = sleeping while she licks my ear.) Three mountain passes, two naps, one chocolate milkshake, and six scuffles over music later, we arrived. Just in time for a little snack.

Ambling through soggy green fields yesterday morning, we watched the dogs frolic (frolic = butt heads) and I pondered the problem of Fred. Our turkey was already stewing in its own tasty juices, but I just couldn’t bring myself to kill my fictional fowl. Fred lived. I ate turkey two hours later. I am a lousy hypocrite.

Fred may forgive my cannibalism when he learns that someone opened his big mouth about my turkey poem and I found myself in the unenviable position of being in a room where people were reading my blog. Out loud. Some might say this is fitting retribution. Not quite on par with having your legs eaten, but it’s no piece of chocolate pecan pie either.

In honor of Fred, I offer one vignette from yesterday’s feast:

Dinner has been served, we are all resting in a moment of perfect harmony, peace, and cheesy potatoes. Eyes are raised to the heavens, golden circles of light enfold the room.

“I’d like to say grace.”

“But… I’ve already finished!”

Yes, Virginia, thirteen-year-old boys can, in fact, polish off an entire Thanksgiving dinner in under five minutes.