Thank God for Turkey


Today was Thanksgiving. Actually, it still kind of is for another two hours, but the house is at rest, and dear old dad has some time to write. And instead of writing about the turkey we cooked upside-down (traps the juices!), the sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes, cranapple sauce, green beans with red and yellow peppers, croissants, cherry-apple stuffing, Prosecco, pumpkin-praline pie, pumpkin pie ice cream, and tea, and instead of writing about nine hours of football and three hours of Macy's parade, and instead of writing about a Charlie Brown Thanksgiving and about phone calls to family and keeping the cats off the table, I will write about one thing: the pre-dinner prayer.

Now, we are quite the secular family, and Rhiannon is more in tune with her spiritual side than either of her parents. So as we all sat down to dinner, Rhiannon informed mom, dad, grandma, grandpa, and Mema (great-grandmother) that she would like to say grace.

"Everybody go like this!" Rhiannon said, folding her hands in her lap and bowing her head like a penitent.

We complied, but many of us had one eye open to watch Rhiannon give the blessing.

"Oh God, thank you for having all the family together. And please be good to us. And even though there are people who are bad and good, please be good to them, and Santa, too. Amen."

"Amen," we said, eyes moist.

Forks raised, we tucked in to the feast as Rhiannon explained what was coming next:

"We all have to say our prayers. Mom is next, then dad!"

Okay. That's a new one. It's almost like a Quaker gathering where we can stand and speak if the spirit moves us. Tonight, the spirit is Rhiannon, and she rides herd on the lot of us.

Mom says a prayer for the kitties.

Now, all through the day, and through dinner ("Wow! These potatoes are FABULOUS!"), Rhiannon has been channeling Hannah Montana, saying "say whut???" at verily everything. Just as she would answer "Obama" to every question she was asked last Sunday. So my prayer was:

"Dear God, please have Rhiannon stop saying 'Say Whut?' all the time."

"Say whut?" Rhiannon chimes in.

"Maybe prayers are like emails and it takes a few seconds to reach the recipient," I say.

We continue to eat. The food really is quite good. As grandpa finishes his prayer of Thanksgiving, Rhiannon let's fly with another "Say whut?"

"Rhiannon!" I exclaim. "Please stop saying that."

Rhiannon looks at me, and with a straight face says, "God must not have gotten the email you sent him."

Rhiannon. You couldn't pray for anyone cuter.

Andrew (Papa)