On the first day of Thanksgiving I played choral religious music while I tidied up, displayed the creche, put the Parcheesi board back in the box, set the table for dinner the next day, made a chiffon pumpkin pie, and Tom made a grand pea soup with a Honey baked ham bone. He also ran errands.
While he was away, I sat entranced by the music feeling it in every cell, until I was like prophets of old--taken away to a high mountain where something whispered in my ear:
Son of God
Love's pure light
Christ the Savior is Born
Yes. Yes. Yes.
Tom and I had take-out for dinner and then, and then, and then, we discovered that both kitchen sinks were half full of filthy black water.
This only happens on holidays when the maintenance people are home getting ready for their own holiday. Tom went out for Draino.
I put on Harry Connick Jr. Very smooth, but not redemptive.
Before we went to bed, the Draino seemed to be doing its job. The water had disappeared.
This morning, Thanksgiving morning, the sinks had filled with black water again. Tom gets back into bed. Aaugh.
"I think we should have pie for breakfast," I say.
"Good idea," he says.
"In bed," I say.
"Where else?" he says.
We ate the soup from Anthropologie mugs.
It was a swell Thanksgiving all around. Sinks are still plugged. Still blithely thankful.
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