Thanksgiving is almost upon us and every November my mind seems to zero in like a laser on two silly memories that seem to be engraved on my brain.
The first is of my husband, whose turkey ritual always consisted of getting out my old Fanny Farmer cookbook and reading the directions that told him How to Carve a Turkey as he honed his carving knife.
It always amused me....at least it started to sometime around our 20th Thanksgiving together.
The second unbidden wisp I clasp of the past is, oddly, about the British Royals.
I was stuffing a turkey Thanksgiving morning in 1984 and listening to a chatty radio broadcast announcing the two-month-old prince had little tufts of red hair.
This benign observation was fast followed by a list of justifications for this apparently innocent phenomenon. The assurances that red hair has, over the years, surfaced on the royal pates of family members on both sides had a salacious undertone in view of the unneedfulness of an explanation. Who needed to be assured that it was all right?
Not I. I didn't care. I still don't.
Ever since marriage was invented there have been those who have an eye for discerning any lack of paternal influence on the looks of the newborn. Mama's baby; daddy's maybe?
In these sophisticated times, combing and brushing one's pedigree can be a chancy, if not an iffy, thing in all quarters since DNA has reared its spoilsport head.
And, speaking of sophisticated times, here we are, Thanksgiving 2012, and while the royals haven't had a scandal in months, sex on this side of the ocean is still driving the bus.....and for two important generals, it may be going over the cliff.
Poor guys. They apparently have not learned the truth that great philosopher, Jon Bon Jovi has given us:
"Women rule the world. It's not really worth fighting because they know what they're doing. Ask Napoleon. Ask Adam. Ask Richard Burton or Richie Sambora. Many a man has crumbled."
Even Fanny Farmer must have known this.
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