“Father, Son, and Holy Ghost,” my nephew Trevor said. “If you eat the fastest, you get the most.”

“Yay, God,” the younger generation yelled. For an encore, they pounded the table with their fists and stamped their feet.

“Settle down,” Carol and Dennis said in tandem.

Our dad held his wine glass high. We all held up our glasses—wine for the adults, milk for the kids and Polly.

Our father looked straight at Polly as he recited:

Wine comes in at the mouth

And love comes in at the eye;

That’s all we shall know for truth

Before we grow old and die.

I lift the glass to my mouth,

I look at you, and I sigh.

Chapter Seven

“William Butler Yeats!” I yelled like I was a contestant on a game show.

Apparently I was the only contestant. Everybody else was staring at Polly, whose glow was definitely heading into blush territory again.

I raised my glass higher to divert their attention. “Happy Thanksgiving!” I tried.

They kept staring at Polly.

“Sláinte!” I roared, which is the Irish equivalent of cheers, though it actually means health and sounds like slurring it’s a lawn chair really fast.

That finally snapped everyone out of it. “Sláinte!” they yelled. We clanked glasses all around.

Our dad reached over to the sideboard for his electric knife with the harvest gold handle. He took it out only three times a year—Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter—and it never failed to put him in a good mood.

He slid the turkey platter a little closer. He revved the motor and executed a few show-off air slices to warm up. He sliced my perfectly done first turkey.

“This bird is the cat’s meow,” my father said.

“That’s good, right?” I said. Not that I was needy or anything.

“You might want to hold off on the praise,” Michael said, “until we see how many of us are still alive and kickin’ tomorrow.”

We circulated dish after dish around the table. A glass of milk tipped over, causing a minor flood in the kiddie section. Carol jumped up, grabbed a pile of paper napkins from the sideboard.

As kids, we’d made igloos with our Thanksgiving dinners. We mounded the mashed potatoes and shingled them with carefully cut pieces of turkey. We dribbled the gravy evenly over the entire dwelling, then scraped it off in the shape of doors and windows.

Our parents played along. They would judge our creations, giving us each a different award. Best House in a Blizzard, Most Likely to Be Eaten First. And just before we’d dig in and actually eat, my father would bestow a final award.