* * * * *
Claudia stood behind her mother in the kitchen and cracked another egg for her pecan pie. The year before, Caera had gotten to make the pies, and Claudia had been stuck with the boring vegetables--the carrots, potatoes, and greens. As usual, Mr. Campbell had arisen at the "crack of dawn" (Mrs. Campbell often used this term when complaining about his habit) to prepare the turkey, which was now half-way done and filled the room with a savory smell. Since he'd put it in the oven, Mr. Campbell had been coming in every half an hour or so to check the temperature, complaining each time that he had to "dodge bodies" before heading back to the front yard.
Claudia found herself thinking about how sad it was that the rest of the world missed out on the particularly American holiday of Thanksgiving. Had it always been held on the third Thursday of November, ever since the Colonial Days? she wondered every year.
Claudia heard smacking sounds behind her and turned around to see her mother licking a syrupy spoon. Obviously, she'd finished crumbling the corn bread (her mother was from the South and always made corn bread stuffing, insisting that white bread stuffing was "too doughy") and had moved on to the candied yams.
"Gee, Mom, do you think you've got enough brown sugar on those yams?" Claudia pointed to the massive-mound where the yams were buried. Her mother threw a look over her shoulder before replacing the lid on the pot.
"I'm going to help your father with the lawn." After her mother left, Claudia sprinkled a few more pecans into the pie mixture and popped some into her mouth. Ana hadn't called on Wednesday, and here it was almost five o' clock on Thursday.
She figured Ana was probably busy with all of her cousins, but if she and Caera and Ana were going to get together on Saturday, Ana'd have to call and say when she could get away.