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WTOI ALL THE TR1MMINGS By GARRISON KEILLOR Nov. 27, 1995

IT IS A WICKED WORLD IN WHICHTHE POWER OF ANY INDWidual to causc suffering is so grcat and thc power to do good is so slight; but herc we arc. the wcck of our beloved national feast, our annual homecoming, and signs of loving Providcnce arc cvcrywhcrc around us.

I am thankfiil to bc alive. In Minnesota the lakes are freezing ovcr in latc Novcmbcr, and somc men who envision a leadership role for themsclvcs take their snowmobiles out onto thc tliin icc and fali Lhrough and drown in the cold wąter—their last thought in this life: "Boy, was this dumb or what?"— and so far I have not bcen one of them. Caution was bred into me: I never played with guns or madę a hobby of pharmaccuticals or flung myself off a cliff whilc clinging to a kito. I rcad books instead. I read books in which men hearken to wild imperativcs, and that is enough for me.

I am thankfiil for living in a place whcrc winter gets good and cold and you need to build a fire in a stove and wrap a blauket around you. Cold draws people closer together. Crimc drops. Acts of kindness proliferate betwecn strangers. I have becn in Los Angeles on a balmy day in January and seen the glum faccs of people poking at their salads in outdoor restaurants. brooding ovcr tlicir unproduced screenplays. People in Minnesota are much chccrier, Iurching across tlie ice, leaning into thc wind as sheets of snów swirl up in their faces. Becausc they feel needed and because cold weather takes the place of personal guilt. Maybc you haven’t bcen tlie shining star you should bave been, but now is not the timc to worry about it.

I am thankfiil for E-mail, which ałlows us to kccp in touch with our children, and for tlie ubiąuity of fresh coffee, thc pcrsistence of good newspapers, thc bravery of artists, the smali talk of sales clerks, tlie generał competence and good humor I cncounter every day. Nonę of us is self-sufficient, despite what thc Republicans claim. Everv good tiiing, cvcry morsel of food comcs directly from God, who cxpccts us to pay allcntion and be joyful, a large task for people from tlie Midwcst, wherc our idea of a compliment is, "It could have bcen worse."

I am thankful, of course, for Thanksgiving, a joyful and simple day that never suffered commercial cxploitation and so is thc same day as when I was a boy and wc played touch football on thc fYozen turf and camc to thc tablc swcaty and in high spirits and kept our eyes open for flying food. My sister had good moves; you'd look away for an instant, and she'd flip her knifc and park a pat of butter on your foreliead. Nobody Łlirows food at our table now, but in thc giddiness of the festive moment I liave held a spoonful of cranberry for a moment and mcasured tlie distance to Uncle Earl, his gleaming head, likc El Capitan, bent over thc piąte.

As I grew up, Thanksgiving evolved perfectly. It uscd to be that men had tlie hard work, which is to sit in thc living room and make convcrsation about gas mileage and lower back pain, and women got thc good job, which is cooking. Women owned thc franchisc, and men milled around tlie trough mooing, and if any rnan dared enter tlie kitchen, hc was watched closely lest he touch something and damage it pcrmancntly. But I bided my time, and thc aunts who ran thc show grew old, and young, liberated lady rclativcs came along who wcrc proud of their inability to cook, and one ycar I rcvoltcd and took over tlie kitchen—and now I am It. The Big Turkcy. Mr. Masher. The Pie Man.

Except for gravy aud pic crust, which takc paticncc and practice, Tlianksgiving dinner is as easy to make as it is to eat. You're a right-handcd batter in a park that's 150 fcet down the left-field linę—it docsn't takc a genius to poke it out.

Ycars of selective breeding havc produced turkeys that arc nothing but cooking pouchcs with legs.

You mb thc bird's inside with lemon, stuff it with bread dressing scasoncd with sagę and tarragon and jazzed up with chunks of sausage and nuts and wild rice, shove it in a hot ovcn; meanwhile, you whomp up yams and spuds and bakę your pies. The dirty little secret of tlie dinner is melted animal fats: in all the recipcs, somcwhcrc it says, "Mclt a quarter-pound of butter."

Think of the fancy dishes you slaved over tliat becamc disasters, big dishes that wcrc lost in the late innings. Here’s roast turkcy, which tastes grcat, and all you do is baste. You mclt butter, you nip at thc winę, and when tlie turkcy is done, you seat everyonc, carvc thc bird, sing tlie doxo!ogy and pass the food.

The candlcs are lit in the wiuter dusk, and we look at one another, tlie old faccs and somc ncw ones, and silcntly toast tlie Good Life, which is herc bcforc us. Enjoy thc animal fals and to heli with apologies. No need to defend our opinions or pretend to bc young and brilliant. We still have our faculties, and the food still tastes good to us. Walt Whitman said, "I find Icttcrs from God dropped in thc Street, and everv one is signed by God's name." Thanksgiving is one of thosc signed Icttcrs. Anyone ean open it and see what it says.