Devonne Brown

Image generated with AI

“Eudaimonia” human flourishing a contented state of being happy and healthy and prosperous…

“Twelve folks are coming for Thanksgiving,” said Margaret. 

“Is that a blessing or a curse?” asked Floralee. They’d been best friends since their college days at Bethel Hill. Margaret limped around the kitchen, holding on to the countertop as she went. She had a bad hip, and walking was a chore as sure as lifting a turkey big enough to feed all those people would be. She’d enlist help or she wouldn’t cook. That’s all there was to it, Floralee asked the right question. Was it a blessing or a curse?

“Sit down Margaret. What are you looking for anyway?”

“I’m making a list of who’s going to bring what, whether they like it or not.” She grinned a wicked grin, “Starting with you, I guess I’ll have thirteen. You’ll make it an even coven.” 

Floralee giggled in evil glee. “Oh you do make me happy, Margaret. I was so hoping you’d ask. I love a good party. What’s my role in your Thanksgiving soiree?”

“Will you bring the wine and set the table? I love your elegance of presence and touch,” Margaret tilted her head toward her friend in a conspiratorial manner of such. Floralee grinned and glanced at her table and room. 

“Not only that, I’ll bring flowers and holiday ambiance to the whole shebang,” Floralee loved to put on a good do and Margaret expected no less from her friend. 

Margaret took a deep breath and sighed with satisfaction. “Sallie can’t cook for shit, though she brags about her dressing. I’ll put her on cherry pie. She’ll buy crusts, open cans, and buy ice cream. Everyone will be happy with that.”

“Jeremy does a mean green bean, none of that casserole mess. He can cook enough for the army. He’ll put his brood on stringing and snapping til the cows come home. She laughed til tears came to her eyes.”

Soon she’d had all the dishes doled out to the other guests. The Thanksgiving feast would be a piece of pumpkin pie, prepared and wrought by the best hands. The pumpkin pie itself and a raisin pie too, her grandmother’s secret recipes she could make with her eyes closed. The turkey too. Thanksgiving was done. All she had to do was wait for the day.

She and Floralee would play, drink, be merry on the day, and wait for the company to show up. Life was lovely in Margaret’s world. She made it so.