The trouble with having one’s children spread out across the nation at Thanksgiving time is that they are all contacting me for recipes. Of course, the day before Thanksgiving is actually the one that requires the cooking muscle.
It started last night with brining the bird in Reisling, honey, Kosher salt and a mass of herbs, including juniper berries. Today I’ve baked two pumpkin pies, made a fresh batch of cranberry sauce with honey and apples from my tree, simmered giblets and garlic to make stock for tomorrow’s gravy, roasted butternut squash for the wild rice and deviled the eggs.
That leaves roasting the turkey tomorrow while we munch on veggies and eggs. While the turkey sets I’ll mash the Idaho potatoes, whip up the gravy, heat the side dishes and set out the cranberries. Pour the wine, eat and pause until pumpkin pie will fit in the belly.
I’ll miss not having my children around the table, but we welcome new friends tomorrow and will swap photos with the kids to share our meals across the distance. The Runner is roasting a game hen, the Radio Geek is fixing pork steaks with blueberry bbq sauce and the Rock Climber is tending bar for elk hunters. An interesting mix to share.
The obvious would be to post a prompt on food or holiday feasts. But sometimes the obvious doesn’t spark creativity. So I was giving some thought to what makes our minds leap and often times it is putting together two dissonant ideas. It’s more intriguing to see where something like holiday feasts and prison bars leads our thoughts.
November 26, 2014 prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story using two objects, people or ideas that don’t go together. Anything random like wine and gasoline; the Archangel Michael and Marilyn Monroe; granny and rehab; horses and church bells. Then write a story about your two dissonant picks. Use your two objects as the title.
Respond by December 2 to be included in the weekly compilation. Rules are here.
Guns and Apples by Charli Mills
The sweet smell of rotting apples wafted across the meadow on west slanting rays of sunshine. It was late afternoon and time to start dinner. Ramona shifted her prone position in tall grass to ease the pain of old arthritic knees. The VA had more paperwork for her to file before they’d pay out widow’s benefits. The last can of pinto beans was simmering on the stove back at the house. Something had to give, and soon.
A breaking twig snapped. Dry leaves crumpled. The buck had come to eat apples. She steadied her dead husband’s rifle for provision.