Peas. There were peas. Green peas and onions, little white onions.
Creamed, sweet and delicious, fresh vegies in those days. Mm, mm, most scrumptious.
Bacon too. Why do I remember bacon? What was it in or with or was it part of the conversation?
Cranberries, freshly ground, tart to taste. I like the chunky canned sauce.
Pies. Three different pies; Pumpkin and apple and minced meat. Minced meat pie an acquired taste.
Turkey? It must have been there. I don’t remember. It was smothered in gravy.
Grandmother? She must have been there. I know it’s no lie ‘cause she made the pies.
Strangers. One or two, from far away or maybe nearby? They talked of many strange things.
Crowded. Chairs around tables in the family room of our West Boulevard home.
Children? I don’t remember others. If so, I must have been around five.
Grandfather? Was he there? If not, I must have been around four.
Christmas? Or Thanksgiving? I don’t remember a tree.
Family and peas, onions and strangers, the feast is only a memory. A misty memory at that!