Our first holiday as a married couple
was spent at your parents’ home.
The turkey smell pervaded the home
when we came in from the cold.
We had barely unbundled
when we were called to the table.
Seating accomplished,
a short blessing bestowed,
your father cut the turkey
while your mother spooned gravy
over everything on the plate sans
the canned cranberry sauce.
The gravy had chopped bits
of the giblets and large lumps
of uncooked, pasty, dough.
My aunt, Isabell, who stirred our gravy
until it was silky smooth, would have
left the table feigning gastric imbalance.
The addition of mashed turnips
covered in this gravy even gave me, pause,
to consider the depth of my thankfulness.
INSTANT NOODLES 