A Holiday Most Fowl

Thanksgiving. 500 Words, 2 minute Read. With Claude Sonnet.

Thomas Featherington III straightened his neck feathers with as much dignity as his trembling could allow. Across the rough-hewn table, Governor William Bradford regarded him with the weary patience one might reserve for a particularly persistent petitioner. Three generations of peaceful turkey-pilgrim relations had earned Thomas this unprecedented seat on the harvest festival planning committee, but today's debate threatened to unravel it all.

"Governor Bradford," Thomas began, his voice carrying the measured tone of careful diplomacy, "might I speak freely regarding the proposed feast arrangements?"

Bradford dipped his quill in ink, preparing to note any worthy suggestions. "Proceed, Master Featherington, though I remind you of our English customs in such matters of celebration."

"Indeed, sir, and it is with utmost respect for your traditions that I propose we consider the bounty the Lord has blessed us with from the fields." Thomas's wattle quivered as he continued, "The maize stands tall, the squash grows abundant, and the cranberry bog yields its fruit most generously."

"You speak of side dishes, Master Featherington," Bradford replied, sliding forward a parchment filled with careful notation. "But a proper feast requires heartier fare. Perhaps a roasted—"

"I beseech you, sir!" Thomas interjected, his wings rustling with such vigor that the inkwell wobbled precariously. "Might we not discuss the matter of protein without reference to my kindred?"

Bradford's fingers drummed against the table. "The settlers speak of my growing softness, allowing a turkey to sit in council. They expect traditional fare - duck, pheasant, or..."

"All members of my extended family, sir," Thomas responded, his wattle deepening to a rich crimson. "Surely our Lord's bounty provides alternatives that need not involve such... personal sacrifices."

The Governor's stern countenance softened slightly. "You speak with conviction, Master Featherington. What alternative do you propose?"

With deliberate ceremony, Thomas withdrew a carefully wrapped parcel from his satchel - a recent innovation he'd commissioned from the colony's seamstress. "If I may present, sir, what I humbly call 'Tofurkey.' The knowledge comes from merchants who trade with the Far East, where they craft sustenance from the soybean in most ingenious ways."

Bradford examined the curious loaf with scholarly interest, though his nose wrinkled slightly. "You suggest we replace our traditional feast with this... foreign fare?"

"Consider it, sir, as a bridge between our peoples. A symbol of how the Lord guides us to new discoveries in this land." Thomas paused, then added with careful measure, "I have developed a sauce of cranberries that might make even the most skeptical settler reconsider their prejudices."

Bradford sat back, stroking his beard in thoughtful silence. The minutes stretched like honey dripping from a comb before he finally spoke. "Master Featherington, your words carry wisdom, though perhaps not in the way you intended. This harvest festival should indeed celebrate our unity in this new land."

Thomas's heart thundered beneath his feathers. “I am eternally grateful for you wisdom, sir.”

"Though I must say," Bradford continued, a rare smile crossing his features, "this entire deliberation has been rather..."

"Fowl?" Thomas suggested.

“Fowl,” Bradford agreed.

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