Our Thanksgiving tradition: The people who have toiled through the most meal-prep over the years (my sister and mother-in-law) fly from points East and West to rendezvous atâ'ê¬Â¦gasp...a restaurant for the festive mealâ'ê¬Â¦on us.
When my husband and I first cautiously proposed this three years ago, it was met with unexpected enthusiasm. Who knew our family's designated cooks weren't dying to spend two days in the kitchen preparing a meal that was demolished in an hour? (Followed by washing all the good china by hand, and scrubbing red-wine stains out of the linen tablecloth.)
So, off we go to our holiday table, high atop a Portland building with views of the entire city and its swath of bridges.
This year's high points: My discovery that the piano player does, in fact, know how to play Happy Trails, allowing my sister to, once again, recount the half-century-ago thrill of her lifetime: Meeting Roy Rogers, Dale Evans and petting Trigger's nose.
Move over Norman Rockwell, the waiter wants to tell us about the specials.
