H A P P Y T H A N K S G I V I N G
Thanksgiving Eve 2 years ago found the Peperiums at the Hunt Club. We had been invited to meet the Budweiser Clydesdales who were lodged there, as they are every year, before marching in The Detroit Thanksgiving Day Parade. It was amazing to see how good these gentle giants were with small children. One of them, Jake, was out of his box stall on a simple rope lead no different from the ones used with Shetland ponies. He stood in the middle of the barn with people ranging in age from 1 to 77 petting his nose, neck, and even his tummy. Buddy the dalmatian was asleep in the hay of his very own box stall. It was a wonderful start to our Thanksgiving holiday.
Last night found us in our new home just a hop, skip and a double combination away from the Budweiser Clydesdale Farm. The kids played in the garage with their new friends, building airplanes and hotels out of the empty wardrobe boxes left over from the move. Our neighbors were in and out all day visiting, including one who works for Budweiser. Sir Basil's Fan Club came around as they knew he was due to lend Mr. P a hand in hoisting a few. When he arrived the Fan Club graciously relived us of the task of holding the front door open for Sir B as he made his customary five or six trips between the trunk of his car and the second shelf of our refrigerator. After chatting the ladies up, he and Mr. P retired to the library. Their holiday treat over, the Fan Club departed, the kids went up to bed, and I finally headed into the kitchen to make the pies I had been intending to make all day.
After an hour or so, Mr. P and Sir Basil eventually made their way into the kitchen. I had just nailed the lemon on the lemon meringue so it was safe to drink. By "nailing the lemon" I am not referring to some quaint New England parlor game. What I mean is, I had achieved the proper balance between sweet and tart, soupy and thick, which makes a lemon meringue a, well, a lemon meringue. And by "it was safe to drink" I don't mean I drank the meringue. I drank wine. Mr. P poured me a glass and the three of us stood around the island conversing as the pumpkin pie got under way. And no, when I say "around the island" I don't mean our private island retreat in the Bahamas. I mean the island in our kitchen. And when I say "the pumpkin pie got under way" I don't mean we launched a battle ship named the U.S.S. Pumpkin Pie. I mean I started to make one.
All clear? Good. We may proceed.
The conversation went so well I burnt the pie.
So, it's another Thanksgiving with no pumpkin pie (see yesterday's post) for the Peperiums. Life is back to its usual self.