A week before Thanksgiving, I explained to my Aweleeta

about the Indians and the Mayflower how Lincoln set the slaves free.

I explained to my parents about the purple mountains majesty,

one of by land, two of by sea.

The cherry tree, the tea party, the amber waves of grain,

the masses yearning to be free, liberty and justice for all

until finally they agreed this Thanksgiving we would have Turkey.

As well as pork.

Aweleeta prepared the poor fall of committing an act of treason,

faking her enthusiasm for my sake.

My mom set a frozen pumpkin pie in the oven and prepared candy jams,

following instructions I had to translate from the marshmallow bag.

The table was a raid with gladiolas,

the platter turkey loomed at the center and plastic silver from Woolworth's.

Everyone sat in green velvet chairs with a foescoote with clear vinyl,

except the Okalos and totti seated in the folding chairs from the Salvation Army.

I uttered a bilingual blessing and the turkey was passed around

like a game of Russian roulette.

Dry, the Oberto complained and proceeded to drown the lean slices

with pork fat drippings and cranberry jelly.

Esa, Nierdarroha, as he called it.

Faces fell when my mom presented her okar pie.

...