Dancing the Turkey Trot

It was Thanksgiving

And all through my apartment

The strong smell of turkey was wafting throughout

My daughter’s oven went on the blink

Could she use my oven–I had to think

Yes, of course, I said

Thinking with dread

What about my pie

You now see that I

Was making an apple dessert

But you need to know the rest of the dirt:

Was awakened at four couldn’t get back to sleep

Worried about the apple pie I would reap

I tossed and turned, finally I rose

Cold and dark, I slippered my toes

I decided to make MS’s pate brisee

Done it before, always turned out okay

Looked up the recipe on youtube

Oh yes I remember, I’m no rube

I fixed it all and stashed in the fridge

An hour to wait, I’ll just nap a smidge

At eight I was up to prepare the crust

Floured the counter with pastry dust

My apple corer must have taken vacation

Got a paring knife to start the seration

The phone rings before my first apple slice

Her oven’s not working and it would be nice

If she could use mine, of course I said yes

What’s Thanksgiving without a turkey to dress

The older girls now twenty-one and nineteen

Arrived shortly with the beast so keen

So it’s in the oven taking up space

The pie won’t be made, taking second place

The rest of the meal will be stovetop or nuked

First time for that but we will not be duped

Snacks and games till the bird is done

Later now, but we’ll laugh and have fun

The moral of the story is this

Relax and enjoy and don’t get pi–ed.

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