Thanks to WDRT.
(Listen at about the 2:20 mark.)
All manner of things went well for the sendoff last night of Aust(ral)ian bro-in-lo back to Upsidedownland (“What do you call someone from Down Under who has a suntan from Down Under?” “Aussie Ozburned”).
In what was a third go around on this sumptious recipe, my sister-in-law Lady Wellington outdid herself – and thanks to the help of my other sister-in-law Lady Duxelles with just the right balance of moist and dry, these two and a third (not pictured – it still had another ten minutes in the oven) were just about as good as could exceed expectations.
Accompanying this beef’s rich pageant, my brother-in-law, the Duke of Hollandaise, added his pedigree to the work of my wife, Mistress Broccoli. And it was all was washed down with a tarry fruity cabernet sauvignon brought to the table by yours truly, the Earl of Carnivor – along with another in honor of my other other sister-in-law Lady Middlesister – who could not be present for the occasion. Brother in law Sir Mashalot also couldn’t be there, although his presence was evoked in spud-acular fashion.
After a reading and buttering of the royal rolls, all and sundry set to for a repast that present generations will be savoring long into the future…
“Funny, bourbon does for me not what Proust’s madeleine did for him, but rather what I suspect bourbon actually did for Walker Percy…and Norman Mailer, William Faulkner, Janis Joplin, Ulysses S. Grant and every other bourbon drinker right on back to that seminal moment, lost in the mists of time, when some nameless Scotch-Irish frontiersman far out in the untracked wilderness of Kan-Tuck-Kee discovered that Indian corn worked as well for distilling as barley: it gets me drunk.”
— Aaron Walton, getting perhaps just a touch reductive in the comments section of this piece on the “real” American character of bourbon whiskey over at The New Yorker. Which reminds me, I’ve got a bit on Percy and bourbon sitting unfinished on the old hard drive, back from the time Potter and Jobe and I crashed the opening ceremonies at the Walker Percy Center for Writing & Publishing…
Webb Thanksgiving Day Turkey Dinner: A Family Recipe
One Large Turkey
Bake at 350 degrees for four hours or until done. Baste every 30 minutes.
To add to the grief, Humpford’s grandfather (Humpford the First) died of a heart attack later that year, a few days after a dismal Thanksgiving, and only in his mid-sixties.
Happy Thanksgiving From Korrektiv
What Have You Done for Me Lately? (by Lickona)
Advent Meditation: Thanksgiving Edition (Guest Post by CNB)
Be patient therefore, brethren, unto the coming of the Lord. Behold, the husbandman waiteth for the precious fruit of the earth, and hath long patience for it, until he receive the early and latter rain. Be ye also patient; stablish your hearts: for the coming of the Lord draweth nigh. –James 5:7-8
A Platter of Live Turkey at Dinner! (by Holland Potter, age 8)
Lucy and Charlie were looking out the window on Thanksgiving. They were waiting for their aunt, uncle, grandma, and grandpa to show up at their house. They were going to have a Thanksgiving dinner together.
When the grandparents got there, they all sat down at the table to prepare the Thanksgiving dinner. When they opened the platter to get the turkey, the turkey was alive!
The turkey ran around the kitchen and pooped in the pudding. Then it sat in the pumpkin pie and while it sat in the pumpkin pie it peed! Then it got up and barfed on the floor! Lucy got up, carefully to avoid the barf, and grabbed a knife and slashed the turkey right in the head! The turkey flopped right over and then its head fell off.
They went to the store and got another turkey, and that turkey didn’t cause any trouble.
So, this happened…
Doe and nubby buck fawn. At about 7:30 this a.m. Opening day.
(Extra special heaps of thanks to Bro-in-Lo Canisius for field dressing (two in less than 15 minutes) and helping (OK, mostly by himself) lugging deer out of bottom valley!)
And so, a poem is in order, no?
The Last Hunt
The new snow’s whiteness
Blanks the prayerful bend of the bare-branched trees
Giving them a cold but muscular look.
We cannot see the deer for all the snow.
It was bully-blowing all night, yet meekly lacking,
Clinging to embraced bareness. No warmth
For the trees, and no warmth for us either.
And something gets in behind the grey skies
As if to blow down on us all the souls
Ever risen from the dead. Something old which
Comes back every winter, a habit of wind,
Late day, a shadow’s vows. But soon we see,
In the clean snow, something else. A gunshot
Reports through the valley.
Then, as we walk
Up valley, we suddenly come to a sign
Which our father and uncles may have known,
Learned first through cold tears and piss-cold pants –
Another sign snow cannot hide – and red scarves
Of blood leave tracks which better prepare us
For our own last dash across an open field.
The wife has been busy…