I suppose when you grow up in Michigan it’s natural to think the third Thursday in November is meant to be hunted. It’s a tradition that was more common with the men of my youth than myself, however.
Still, this Thanksgiving found me less in the kitchen than normal, and so late in the morning I seized the opportunity to head into the New Jersey woods with my brother and father. Brother was hoping for pheasants; I was hoping to find a chicken of the woods. Dad was along for the adventure.
I’d say we all came up empty handed, but for the fact that it was so delightful to be in that crisp air, stirring up leaves that it’s now a tradition. One I’d like to continue forever.