Manic Mondays:

Gobble-Gobble. 

As if you need reminding that this week boasts the most American of all holidays—Thanksgiving.  And I say that not just because it’s when our founding parents gave thanks to the Lord they sought this land to worship and to their new-found right-here-and-now saviors, the natives, but because it’s the one holiday focused entirely on eating.  And a certain portion of our population will still ignite their fare and cause explosions [of which I can decisively number myself].  Yeah, we’re first-worlders who will eat ourselves into comas on Thursday—all to be thankful for the bounties of blessings in our lives. 

I realize that this blog is ridiculously new; and that may of you have no idea who I am.  I’ve said that I’m accident prone (didn’t I?); that my house is perpetually messy and that my life is full of MIS-adventures.  But so far these posts seem all too perfect, don’t they? 

Well, it’s a tad early for any major emergencies or mishaps.  So I’ll share with you how we’ve been prepping our hearts for being thankful…and to entertain you (what a delightful hostess I am!), I’ll regale you with the very quick story of my first married Thanksgivng.  Or what I like to call, “The Day I Set My Groom on Fire.”

So, kick back Julia Childs style (instead of marinating the bird, help yourself to the wine) and enjoy – just remember to be thankful you’re not married to me. 

Here’s a picture of our family’s Thankful Tree.  It's free-hand impressionistic.  [Don’t laugh—I never claimed to be an artist.]  Each leaf represents something one of us is thankful for.  We fill in one leaf daily…or biweekly we catch up…whatever; and then we attach our “thanks" to the tree.  As you can see, some are still clinging to their branches, and some are floating to the ground.

 Here's a closer view of the leaves:

 



 

 Here's one of my favorites:

 

And the scripture we’re memorizing and attempting to implement this week:

Psalm 100: 4-5

Enter his gates with thanksgiving
and his courts with praise;
give thanks to him and praise his name.
For the Lord is good and his love endures forever;
his faithfulness continues through all generations.

Okay, and now the story of my first Thanksgiving, in 5oo words or less…

We’d been married less than a month.  Because we were 3,580 miles away from home and I the only wife amongst a gaggle of airmen, I seemed the obvious host for Thanksgiving dinner.  The pervading illusion was that because I was a girl, I could cook such a meal.  These boys were apparently unaware that I was raised by a dyed-in-the-wool feminist who had purposed to not teach me to cook, so that it could never be expected of me.  But, as I was eager to impress my new husband’s fellows in uniform, I agreed.  I bravely spent hours on the phone with my mother as she coached me step-by-step through the entire process.  The bird we’d purchased was huge (particularly to someone who’d only ever cooked chicken breasts) and heavy, so as the day wore on, I relied more and more on the officer to hoist the thing out of the oven so I could check the temperature or baste or otherwise fiddle with the monstrosity that took up our entire oven.  Finally, it was time to pull it from the oven for the last time and allow it to cool a bit before serving.  The officer opened the door, I stood proudly in our dining room (only a few feet from the oven itself).  This is the point in my story that I need to fill in one, crucial detail.  You see, because we were newlyweds and had spent all of our “disposable” income on chairs for our company and food, I’d skimped on a roasting pan.  I found an aluminum dish at the BX that had “roasting pan” on the packaging; and because it was only $2, I’d been convinced I was saving money.  So our 20+ pound bird was stewing in its juices in a flimsy, aluminum roasting dish.  When the officer bent down to lift the bird out, some of those delectable juices spilled onto the heating element of the oven.  I stood, setting something on the table, and watched as a ball of fire shot out from the oven and engulfed the head of my groom.  I can assure you (though his version is quite different), that this fireball lasted five minutes, that I was fairly sure that I’d just killed my brand-new husband or at the very least barbequed him, and that I had also set the apartment complex on fire.  Thankfully, the Officer merely stood up (he claims this fire lasted only a few seconds), and set the turkey on the stove to cool.  He hadn’t even singed his eyebrows.  The flames dissipated when the juices had burned up, and the smoke alarms didn’t even go off.  Nonetheless, my groom and I agreed that I wouldn’t be hosting another Thanksgiving for a long while.         

And that, friends, is the story of my first fire started by turkey.  Stay flame-free this holiday; and may your Thanks outweigh all else this year has brought!