Let there be turkey and pumpkin andStuffing made of old bread to soak up the fat
That isn’t supposedly there says the
Sniffing gourmet speaking on radio
And counsels that we eat instead
L’oie, ze goose, or un poulet grand,
ze chicken—but no! Let’s have the
Turkey, the stuffing, the works,
In all of the usual ways. The Pilgrims were
Glad they had the big bird and it’s their day
We celebrate, not the gourmet’s.
It isn’t the eating we’re celebrating
It is the Mercy of Providence.
[Belatedly—because it takes time to cross the Atlantic—I have been able to add the perfect “Ghulf” picture to this poem. It is the photo of a Thanksgiving meal prepared and eaten on this feast day but in Paris, where our son-in-law Thierry (aka The Chef) tells us that butchers have got the message finally and always stock turkeys ahead of the American feast.]