On the eve of Thanksgiving, the night was crisp and lively. The leaves gently scurried across the frost-bitten yard. The moon came out of hiding from the hazy, obscured, distant horizon and the trees danced and caressed side to side. The evening was still and quiet except for the distant sounds of cars rushing home. Repetitive, visible breaths steamed out from my dry, chilled lips. The inviting, orange glow of the house, which transcended out from the bay windows, illuminated the onlooker’s face as they stood in awe awaiting for the door to be opened. The aromas in the house were breathtaking. Both wild and gentle aromas wrestled in the warm, soothing atmosphere. The quest for the Thanksgiving meal was soon to be discovered.
The lightly tanned turkey was positioned at the heart of the feast accompanied by dimly lit candles towering atop of two tall sconces. The warm cinnamon apple, sweet potatoes crackled with steam in its white, luminous pot. The Ethan Allen dining table accented the overall hue of the glorious, perfectly cooked bird. Adjacent to the focal point was the bright, luscious mashed potatoes, slightly pecked and kissed with fresh, chopped, green scallions and cilantro. The creamy, gently-whipped texture of the mashed potatoes flowed easily throughout my craving mouth. My tongue experienced waves and bursts of sweetness as each and every kernel of corn popped. The fresh, crunchiness of the festive, multi-colored salad exploded with blasts of water throughout my unworthy taste buds. No tongues could’ve escaped the devious delight of the sparkling cider. As I drank more and more, my tongue tried to steer away from the powerful drive of temptation, but when I came in contact with the beverage, it was all downhill from there similar to when the Titanic crashed into the infamous iceberg. Following the satisfying main course were colorful, decorative arrangements of many different fruits. Ice cream was not an option. Every single person at the table was extremely stuffed and full and their smiles hinted great satisfaction. Each explorer who invested their time in the quest for the Thanksgiving feast came prepared and hungry, but flourished in the riches and beauties of what was provided.

The night gradually faded along with people and great, treasurable memories. There was a cool, refreshing breeze that made one want to collapse and sleep on the fresh, chilled grass that tickled ones neck. The air was filled with many different serenading components: wind-carried odors of sweet cinnamon apples, my grandpa’s sweet memorable peppermint cologne, and of course, the rotten stench of unwanted released gas that was bottled up for the whole entire duration of the feast.