Giving Thanks

After we have munched on appetizers of goat cheese and smoked salmon; after we have begun drinking Monty’s wines (the expected romp through France with the occasional but well-deserved stop in California); after the turkey in the smoker catches fire and the traditionally prepared bird cools; before not-quite-two Amelia decides that no dinner party is worth keeping her shirt on for; after Tim has finished stirring the mushroom risotto on the six-burner stove; before the question that will never be answered (How old is Julie really?) is asked again and again; after the guests have offered up more delicious food than anyone has ever seen in one room on Thanksgiving, including, but not limited to, the brussels sprouts and chestnuts, the quinoa-and-mushroom stuffed squash, the turnip flan, the mashed potatoes, the Martha Stewart dressing, the cranberry relish, the green beans, and the baconed-and-creamed pearl onions; after everyone cheers when a single can of cranberry sauce is also produced; after the goats have been milked, allowing Margot and Alex to arrive just in time; after the dainty placement of tastes-of-almost-everything on each plate (and the resulting parade to the table of nearly identical and almost-insurmountable mounds of food); before we take the first bite of turkey raised mere miles away by Dan and Deb; and not too long before we slip into inevitable groaning and food coma, we join hands, and our hostess Sarah gives thanks for all of us and all that’s in front of us, getting a little choked up as she does so, and we get a tad teary too because we are all so very thankful as we look around the table and wonder what we ever did to deserve this.