Thanksgiving at the Malcolmson’s
The hostilities began at half-past one, after the supplication had been delivered and the victuals passed.
House Malcolmson’s table brimmed with bronzed tranches des dindes, buttery mountains of pommes de terre en purée, flaxen rods of the state’s meilleur maïs, glistening quantities of haricots verts, steaming dollops of broccoli-fromage casserole, and fluffy, fresh petits-pains de King’s Hawaiian, the last of which Father Albert had procured from Costco.
Apprisals took place between forkfuls: Cousin Beth was acclimating to her new position as first-shift superintendent at the autoworks, and Nephew Eric was earning high marks in his studies of belles lettres at the local community college — which news was met with the most glowing approbation.
Special attention was paid to the clan’s most recent addition: Niece Bree’s son, little Benjamin, aged one year and ten months, seated upon his high throne, cranberry sauce plummeting from chin to Peppa Pig neckcloth.
The munchkin giggled and cooed when Margaret, the stout matriarch, erupted into another round of goochie-goochie-goos. Wielding her mobile telephone, Aunt Sue snapped a photograph and applied sundry filters before publishing it to her Instagram.
