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"It's coming straight outta the backyard." The man of the house, my brother-in-law Lee, is shouting things like "Bird's good and dead!" and "Hey, Bird, didn't you play for the Celtics?" which inevitable turns into "He shoots, He SCORES!" We take it as a hamburger harry's sign that the turkey is ready to go on the table. In the kitchen my mother, my sister Peggy, and Lee's sister Laura are all looking for serving dishes to put the potatoes in, the stuffing in, hamburger harry's the squash in, hamburger harry's the turnips in, the creamed onions in. I have been given table-setting duties. No one can find anything she needs. "Uh, hey. Does anyone know where Jean keeps her wine glasses?" I ask. We continue opening cabinets, pulling out drawers, finding sorry excuses for side dish presentation. No one has seen Jean. I am trying to arrange slices of butter inside a coffee mug.
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