(revised — This was originally illustrated and published on my blog last year: 11/25/2010)

Thanksgiving Day is predictable because the guest list never changes and neither does the menu. Even so, I’ve had a few that were out of the ordinary and whenever I share my unorthodox holiday stories someone matches them and they reproduce like rabbits. Stories beget stories, so, listen up and let the procreation begin.

One year my parents were so poor that we were thrilled to have liver and onions with our cranberry sauce. Another year my mother molded a meat loaf into the shape of a turkey. The year the oven caught fire we boiled our bird. All of these meals were memorable, but the most unforgettable was our Thanksgiving dinner in a tavern.

The Uptown Village Café in Cedar Rapids, Iowa, was a family tavern that my dear auntie Marge and Uncle Al owned when I was growing up. Dad tended bar and Mom cooked in the kitchen, so my siblings and I practically grew up there. Uppity people called it a beer parlor but Auntie Marge said, “It’s a family tavern. There’s a difference and people who come here know the difference.” Uncle Al loved the people who came there because they were like family. On holidays the Village stayed open so he could make free hot toddies for everyone.

Years later, Denny (my new husband) and I returned to Iowa for Thanksgiving. The holiday feast was in the tavern where we were surrounded by high-spirited customers enjoying free hot toddies and dancing to the Jukebox. To make room for twelve relatives, the waitresses used card tables to extend one of the booths out into the room. The makeshift dining table was camouflaged with a paper covering and matching napkins bearing turkey designs. Soon, the surface was laden with durable restaurant plates, army surplus silverware, heavy glass beer mugs, and pretty little place tags.

The table reached almost to the brand new, beautifully crafted portable shuffle board. The polished oak surface was so slick that the steel discs shot across it like silent bullets. Three older men in high spirits were in the middle of a hot game when my family squeezed into our assigned places for Thanksgiving dinner.

Auntie Marge signaled her waitresses to bring on the food. The first thing to adorn the table was a platter with our golden roasted turkey sitting in a halo of pears poached in pink wine. Next came a parade of taste-bud-teasing side dishes: orange yams, cream-colored mashed potatoes peppered with paprika, rich brown gravy, bright green peas, and crimson cranberries. It was a rainbow of food that I could taste in the air. Uncle Al wanted everything to be special and he made a little speech. “As you all probably know we have never had a Thanksgiving dinner in this tavern before, so this historic event means that we should give thanks to God.”

I didn’t know my uncle could pray or that he believed in God.

He said, “Denny, since you’re a preacher’s son, would you do the honors?”

If eyebrows could talk, Denny’s were saying, “What?” He was used to praying but not in a beer parlor. A cash register ding was not a churchy soundtrack. His eyebrows settled down and he took a slow, deep breath. Using his outdoor voice he said, “Everyone…please, let us bow our heads.”

The beer-drinking patrons took notice.

My head was bowed but my eyeballs were straining sideways to see why everything was suddenly hushed in the tavern. The radio was off, shuffle board discs were not sliding, and Uncle Al’s friends stood in place with heads bowed.

Denny waited a moment with eyes closed and said loud enough for all to hear, “Dear God — on this exceptional Thanksgiving Day, we thank you for these bountiful blessings and ask that you be with us here…in this tavern. Bless the hands that prepared the food…and drink for the nourishment of our…spirits, and let us really enjoy this day of fellowship. Ay-men.”

Ever so slowly, things came back to life, but Denny couldn’t stop grinning. He whispered, “Honey–that felt so weird.”

Uncle Al sensed my husband’s discomfort and said, “Denny, what would Reverend Auchard say about you giving thanks to God in our tavern?”

With no hesitation, Denny said, “Al, my dad would stand up and shout, ‘Ay-men and halleluiah.’ ” And that’s what my father-in-law would have said no matter where he was.

My father-in-law was a teetotaling country preacher in Kansas, and his experiences during prohibition were hair-raising. Just thinking about him reminds me of the time that he and the county bootlegger…

Uh oh.

Contractions have started.

I’m giving birth to another story.