Thanksgiving Gothic

While I was sleeping in, yesterday morning, Morpheus prepared me for a day of joyously conspicuous (and thankful) consumption with a little taste of American Gothic:

In the dream, I'm maybe 6 years old, it's autumn in the country, with fields of corn stubble alongside the road and brown leaves blowing around. I'm riding in my grandfather's rusty Ford pickup truck, flanked by both maternal grandparents, and they've given me a very specific task in preparation for the Thanksgiving feast:

To get the turkey drunk.

So, I'm holding the squirming bird, giving it sips of whiskey in paper cups.

It eventually settles down, some, and--something else to be thankful for!--I wake up before having to surrender the feathery inebriate to its inevitable fate ...

Whew! Am I ever glad I grew up and moved to the city!

Jen picked me up around noon for Thanksgiving at her sister-in-law's parents' house.

I brought the wine.

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