a eulogy for Little Richard

I'll get to Little Richard's rather timely end in a second. First, I must tell you all that the crisis has been averted. There is no longer anything to worry about. I got my burrito fix on Friday. That's right, we were in Kigali to pick up the three oldest kids from the airport, and we went to lunch at Meze Fresh, a restaurant owned by an American in Kigali and modeled after Chipotle. It was the most delicious, burrito-y taste of home. It was like a dream.

Because the kids got into Kigali on Friday night, we delayed our Thanksgiving celebration until Saturday dinner. We returned from Kigali to find Little Richard in the fridge. As Caleb Senior brandished the bagged, cold body, I had to sit down quickly (this was due more to the site of blood than any moral convictions I had about the situation). I actually didn't feel badly in the slightest about consuming him. He was mean as he lived and delicious as he died. That's about all you can hope for. I composed a eulogy Haiku in his honor:

You died gracefully

Pass the cranberry sauce, please

Get in my belly

He paired excellently with mashed potatoes, green beans, stuffing, and pumpkin pie. He was even tasty the second day as we made him into sandwiches for brunch this morning. It's the only way to do it. The house is much quieter without his constant squawking, and we all feel a little safer leaving navigating from the car to the house. Now I am being serenaded by the sweet sounds of Josh Groban and Nat King Cole as they sing the wonders of Christmas. It may be sunny and warm outside (which I totally prefer to winter), but nothing will stop this Christmas music train.