Pete and I are going off to his cousin's house for Thanksgiving. He's in the kitchen at the moment, cutting up vegetables for his Bagna Cauda. Besides trying to find the perfect title for his next YA book all of last week, he's been trying to figure out how to keep this dip warm without having a chafing dish. No one seems to have chafing dishes any more. They've gone out of style. He was balancing a ceramic bowl on top of a flower pot with a lit can of sterno in it and I was sure he was going to burn down the whole house. But I think he has figured out something safer--he went out and bought the smallest crock pot in existence. It would barely heat up a cup of coffee--but I think it will work.
But before we leave I wanted to wish you all a happy Thanksgiving and offer a poem.
Giving thanks isn't done
to have another piece of pie.
I don't give thanks so that the gods
won't take it all away next year.
Thanks isn't for the people around me
to think I'm swell. I give thanks
so that once in a while all the good
that is in me has a place to go.