"We have a lot to be thankful for," Cindy's mother said as they turned into the driveway of the farm.
    "Do you think there will be turkey?" Cindy asked.
    "Oh, yes," her father said. He slowed the car down to a crawl to get across the ruts in the farm road. It was dark as ink outside the windows. "I'm sure they'll have a turkey as big as horse."
    "And about as tasty," her mother added under her breath.
    "What did you say, mom?" Cindy asked.
    "Oh, you know Aunt Meme and Uncle Tucker," she said. "They love to cook up a real feast on Thanksgiving. Everything that moves—or used to move—gets cooked and dropped on the table."
    "Do you remember last year," Cindy asked, "when Uncle Tucker dropped the pumpkin pie and it didn't hurt it one bit? I mean, it didn't even bother that pie."
    "Oh, I remember that," her father said. "Nothing bothered that pie."
    "Was it frozen?" Cindy asked.
    "I think Aunt Meme mixed in too much cement," her father said, "Course it didn't help that it was still frozen."
    As soon as the car pulled up into the farm yard, a feeble yard light switched on and faces appeared at the window.
    "Brace yourself," Cindy's dad said. "It's relative time again."
    "Land sakes!" an older woman said as she sprinted out the door and picked her way across an ancient, broken sidewalk. "Tucker, we've got company!"
    "I know we've got company," he barked from inside. "They come every year, Meme. You make it sound like they just happened to drop in."
    "Don't pay any attention to your uncle Tucker," she said as he gave Cindy a bone crunching hug. "I knew you were coming but I just like to act surprised, that's all."
    "Hello, Aunt Meme," Cindy's mom said.
    "Oh, hello, Joan. You look wonderful. Don't you? It is pretty dark out here but I'll bet in the light you look even better. What do you say?"
    "Well," Cindy's mom said, "I won't argue with that."
    "And Walter," Aunt Meme said, "Look at you. Joan's cooking sure agrees with you, doesn't it. You've got a few love handles, darling."
    "Oh, that," Cindy's dad mumbled.
    "You left the door open," Uncle Tucker called from the house. "Wide open. We can't heat the great outdoors!"
    Cindy's family stumbled inside carrying armloads of luggage. It was so hot inside the old farmhouse they just as well could have been raising tomatoes.
    "Do you have a turkey?" Cindy asked.
    "Just put your things down here, darling," Aunt Meme said. "What was that, Cindy dear?"
    "I was just wondering if you have a turkey?"
    "We did," Uncle Tucker said, "until last week. Karr-r-r-rach."
    He ran a finger across his throat to make his point.
    "Tucker!" Aunt Meme said. "She's from the c-i-t-y and she doesn't know about all that farm stuff. I think you meant for tomorrow? For our Thanksgiving meal? Is that right Cindy?"
    Cindy nodded.
    Behind Aunt Meme's back, Uncle Tucker ran his finger across his throat again, this time without the sound effect of a turkey getting his head stuck in a pencil sharpener. Cindy was unsure how she was supposed to react to all that. And then Uncle Tucker gave her one of his famously weird smiles.
    "What would Thanksgiving be without a few guests?" Aunt Meme asked. "So your Uncle Tucker has invited his sister, Rita, and two friends from the church, Umberto and his brother Giba. Heavens knows where they're from, but they don't celebrate Thanksgiving in their country so we're going to give them a taste of ours."
    "I see," Walter said. "A taste they'll never forget."
    "I hope so," Meme said. "They'll be here in time for dinner tomorrow afternoon."
    "We have a lot to be thankful for," Joan said again.
    It was an exciting time for Cindy. She could hardly sleep that night as she thought about the big meal on the next day and all the fun things to do on the farm until it was time to eat. The old farmhouse creaked and groaned in the night, but  to Cindy, those were comforting sounds as she fell asleep.
    In the morning, Cindy was the first out of bed. She pulled on her clothes in the chilly room and went downstairs in the old farm house where she sat at the kitchen table and looked through a magazine until Uncle Tucker joined here.
    "You must be freezing," he said. "It's as cold as the great out doors in here. Get it? This is the great indoors and it's freezing. Should be warm in here, but it's not. Heck no! Freezing as the great out doors. Get it?"
    Cindy wasn't sure if she was supposed to answer. All this time Uncle Tucker was loading the cook stove with thick pieces of oak and maple firewood. He placed a few small pieces around the larger ones in the firebox, lit a match and in a few moments, Cindy could feel the warmth filling the room.
    "That's better," he said and set about making coffee.
    "Tucker," Aunt Meme warned as she swished into the room, still half dressed, "you get away from that cookstove. This is Thanksgiving and today, the women rule the roost! We'll do the cooking, won't we Cindy? Anyway, you always make the fire too hot. Too much wood, dear," she said to Cindy. "He always thinks he heating the great outdoors."
    "Good morning, everyone," Walter said. "Sleep well?"
    "Hi, Dad," Cindy said. "I slept like a hundred dollars. Is mom up yet?"
    "We all have a lot to be thankful for," her mother said as she came into the kitchen. The room was starting to warm up nicely now. "What can we do to help, Meme? Cindy and I don't mind cooking—"
    "Now don't you worry about it," the old woman said. "Cindy, I'm going to make you a real farm breakfast starting with a nice, hot bowl of oatmeal. What do you think of that?"
    The only time Cindy ate oatmeal was at Aunt Meme's house so there wasn't even a question in her mind.
    "That sounds great," she said. "I didn't even know I was hungry until you said that, Aunt Meme."
    "Of course not, my dear. The power of suggestion!"
    The oatmeal was lumpy with bits of mysterious stuff in there but it all tasted wonderful to Cindy. Both her mother and father passed on the oatmeal. They didn't want to spoil their appetites for the big meal, they both said. And then Cindy's mother repeated that they had many things to be thankful for.
    Cindy spent the morning poking around the farm, checking on the animals and exploring the barn. The whole place was wondrous and filled with perfect hiding places, if anyone was search for her, which they weren't.
    When Cindy finished exploring she found all the men crowded around the television set watching football and the women standing around in the kitchen with Aunt Meme. Tucker's sister, Rita, had shown up. To everyone's surprise, she was quite level headed and interesting to talk to. She was an attorney in town who handled very important cases and seemed very intelligent. The difference between Uncle Tucker and Rita was like night and day. Umberto and Giba, Uncle Tucker's friends from church had shown up, too. They watched the football on TV like it was opera: not understanding any of it but interested in it from a cultural point of view. Cindy would have none of it.
    "Anyone want to visit the pigs with me?" Cindy asked in the living room.
    "Don't be gone long," Aunt Meme called from the kitchen. "We're almost ready."
    Soon Cindy was standing next to the pig pen with her father, Umberto and Giba, watching the pigs slop around in the mud and happily eat something dark and smelly from a trough.
    "This almost makes me hungry for Aunt Meme's cooking," Cindy's dad said.
    Forty-five minutes later, the Thanksgiving meal was served. The table was spread with lots and lots of food. Uncle Tucker stood at the head of the table and offered a pray: "Lord, please forgive us for the food we're about to get. Today we celebrate the bounty of the harvest cooked by my dear wife, Meme, who usually leaves the front door wide open so we end up heating the great outdoors. In the mercy of your name, let's eat."
    Cindy's mom chimed in, "We certainly have a lot to be thankful for."
    "Everything looks so good," Rita said.
    "Yes," Emberto agreed. "Much food, very good. Very tall turkey with very wide friends."
    There was a moment of uncomfortable silence and then Emberto laughed the laugh of a foreigner, "Ha, ha, ha!"
    Everyone else chuckled.
    "Thank you, thank you," Aunt Meme said as she stood up. "I hope you all enjoy this special meal. Well, it's been years and years since I've made my most special dish, string bean casserole. And to our friends from other places, Umberto and Giba—"
    At that, Umberto said something to Giba in a strange language and Giba's eyebrows shot up in the air.
    "—there is nothing finer than string bean casserole on the Thanksgiving table. This was a recipe handed down to me by my grandmother who always hated string bean casserole but made it anyway. Now, everybody, eat up and enjoy the bounty."
    The food was passed. Walter spooned out a generous helping of the casserole onto his plate thinking that he couldn't go wrong with something so simple. Umberto and Giba piled their plates high with it, along with mashed potatoes and gravy. Even Uncle Tucker loaded up on the string bean casserole.
    And then someone took a bite.
    Walter, Cindy's father, coughed politely as he chewed.
    "This is . . . " he said, "very interesting."
    Giba smiled as he chewed his mouthful.
    "My oh, my, good golly, Miss Molly," he said.
    "I'm glad you like it," Aunt Meme said.
    Cindy put a forkful of the famous string bean casserole into her mouth but couldn't quite place the taste. It seemed to be a cross between warm glue and sawdust. And then it came. It was a hot sensation that felt like burning pig iron her mouth. She coughed and raised her napkin to her lips. Without anyone noticing, she pushed the casserole out of mouth and into the napkin.
    "Oh, yes," Cindy's mother said, her eyes brimming with tears, "we have a lot to be thankful for."
    "You might be wondering," Aunt Meme said, "what gives this casserole its distinctive taste. Salt and hot peppers. About a cup of each. Or was that supposed to be teaspoon of each? I can't remember. How is it?"
    "Wonderful," Uncle Tucker exclaimed.
    "In all my travels," Emberto said, "I've never tasted anything like it."
    "I'm speechless," Rita said, gently gasping for air.
    The meal progressed in silence and afterwards, Cindy couldn't wait to go outside. The cold, late afternoon air was fresh and it seemed to promise hope and a renewed spirit after a meal that pushed everyone to the limit. And then there was the string bean casserole.
    Standing next to the pig pen, Cindy took out the napkin from her pocket and gently shook it over the trough. The contents fell in a clump and landed on some other dank, foul smelling food that the pigs enjoyed.
    "We have a lot to be thankful for," Cindy said, "but this casserole is not one of them."
    She stepped around to the other side of the pen to watch the pigs eat. That's when she heard two voices speaking a language she didn't understand. It was Umberto and Giba walking up to the pen.
    "Good golly, Miss Molly," Giba said, and both men laughed.
    They, too, took out their napkins and dropped something into the trough without noticing Cindy standing in the shadows.
    "Special casserole for you, piggy boy," Emberto said to the pig.
    After they left, Cindy thought she had better get back inside before someone missed her. Before she got out of the shadows, two people walked up.
    "I don't know how she does it," Cindy's mother said, "but each year the food gets worse and worse."
    "I thought I was going to die when I put that casserole into my mouth," Walter, her father said. "It was so awful."
    Without saying anything about it, they too took out their napkins and dumped their helpings of string bean casserole into the pig's trough.
    "We'd better be going soon," Walter said. "The traffic will be pretty heavy tonight."
    Now Cindy was curious. Would someone else show up if she waited a little longer in the cold? It didn't take long before Rita walked briskly to the pig pen. She unfolded her napkin and shook it to get the string bean casserole to fall into the trough.
    "I hope you can stomach this better than I can," she said, and then walked away.
    Well, that was it. Nobody enjoyed the casserole and the last fifteen minutes proved it. Cindy was more than ready to go back inside then one more figure approached in the gathering gloom: Uncle Tucker.
    "Not a word of this to anyone," he said to the pig as he held the casserole pan over the fence and scrapped the rest of the contents into the trough. "Or else!" Uncle Tucker said and then ran his finger across his throat and made the sound, "Karr-r-r-rach! I'll lope off your head!"
    After Uncle Tucker walked away, Cindy watched as the pig came up to the trough, sniffed the string bean casserole and turned away. She stepped out of the shadows and headed back to the farmhouse knowing that this was a Thanksgiving she would never forget.
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