The next course was plain boiled potatoes with the jackets on, and baked potatoes with the jackets open at the throat, and then some roasted potatoes with a peek-a-boo waist effect, cut on the bias.
I was beginning to see the delights of being a vegetarian and at the same time I could feel myself fixing my fingers to choke Ollie.
The next course was a large plate of potato salad, and then I fainted.
When I got back Ollie was standing near the table with a sweet smile on each side of her face waiting for the applause of those present.
"Have you nothing else?" I inquired, hungrily.
"Oh, yes!" said Ollie. "I have some potato pudding for desert."
When I got through swearing Ollie was under the stove, my wife was under the table, the dog was under the bed, and I was under the influence of liquor.
No more vegetarianism in mine.
Hereafter I am for that lamb chop thing, first, last and always.
But let's get back to that Thanksgiving dinner.