Thanksgiving.

I know exactly what's going to happen tonight.

At five forty-five, my uncle and his wife will show up. My mother will go downstairs to welcome them, and they will go to sit in the living room. My father will turn up and greet them warmly. No one will be eating because my uncle and aunt are fasting until the sun goes down, although they will probably have one of my aunt's spicy Turkish appetizers in hand as they walk through the door. I will descend the stairs to say hello before retreating to the kitchen to "study french"...and of course I am far more likely to wind up reading a book. My brother will lock himself away in a corner of the house.

At six o'clock, Pat will ring the doorbell. Before my dad met my mum, Pat did most of his shopping for him (apparently he always really liked carrots). Pat is quite a bit older than my parents, possibly in her early seventies. She lives alone and loves cats. My father will head to the kitchen to pour her some wine -- red, most likely.

At six thirty, Naomi will arrive, weighed down with an oversized bowl of homemade cranberry sauce. She puts orange peel in it. Naomi is someone I have known as long as Pat, which is all my life. She works at the hospital, has a son who doesn't talk to her much, changes her hair bi-weekly, and is very short. She will immediately head for the kitchen, where Pat and my mother will already be working. My uncle and aunt will not be alone, as I will have moved to the rocking chair in the living room, and my sister will be by this time bouncing around on the ground floor. No sign of my brother yet.

My mother will have made butternut squash, peas, and mashed potatoes. My father will be working on the turkey. The dressing is different every time, according to his whims (this time, he has added golden raisins and perhaps even bits of the croissants he bought yesterday morning). My brother and I will have set the table, a task we relish -- distributing Van Gogh placemats, hauling out the fine silverware, running around the dining room table until everything is perfect. Naomi will begin to set up, bringing the squash in -- Pat and I are huge squash fans.

My mother's favourite holiday is Thanksgiving, so it should come as no surprise that the dining room (only used on occasions such as this, New Year's and Easter) is painted a festive light orange. I have decorated the house with little squash, Indian corn and the tiny pumpkins we picked up at the farmer's market. My favourite is an extremely twisted little gourd that greatly resembles a bloated swan.

My brother (who will have materialised by this time) and sister will want to drink milk out of the little wine glasses we keep in the cupboard. I will pour their drinks, spilling at least once. There might be music in the living room -- at Christmas we put on the George Winston December album, and on new years' we have been known to play Tarkan. Maybe I'll put on a Rolling Stones record.

When it is dark and all is deemed well, we shall all move into the dining room, whereupon someone (probably my siblings in unison) will say grace. Then: passing around the dishes until everyone has some of everything they want. I love cranberry sauce; I put it on everything, I eat it with pancakes for weeks after. The mashed potatoes might be a bit dry, and we don't usually have gravy. My aunt will be vigorously shaking salt and pepper on everything on her plate, and my uncle will emulate her with a little more moderation.

We will begin to eat. The first thing out of anyone's mouth will be, "Ian, this turkey is so good." I'm predicting Pat. From there, where will the conversation go? Usually, it centres around all things old -- old movies, old television shows, days of old in Montreal. I will listen intently, slightly uncomfortable on my chair. The furniture in that room is beautiful, but the chairs are a bit wide and low for my liking. I'll probably have to keep getting up to go fetch myself some more of whatever I'm drinking. I'll pour a glass, leave the empty glass beside the sink, and go back when I'm thirsty again. I'm serious. That's what I do.

Talk may turn to Dr Shanks, the oldest of the old family friends, and not present at the table. He is in his mid-eighties, and every year we go out to his cottage in Sharbot Lake, Ontario. Mosquitoes, archery, and beautiful landscapes. Now, his far-younger wife of so many years and with whom he has three children is leaving him, forcing him to sell the cottage (in his family for generations!) in order to keep his apartment here. Dr Shanks is a painter, and doesn't hear very well.

My father, who is far more the life of the party and far better at telling stories or jokes than I am, will possibly go on a tirade about the dismal state of the country's future, at which point I will laugh and ask for more turkey.

I will probably be the first to leave. My family is huge on family dinners, but you're allowed to leave whenever you please -- none of this horrible asking to be excused business. I'll head to the piano, forgetting that we have guests who don't want to hear me, and play the right hand of the Minuet from Le Tombeau de Couperin. In due course, the rest of the group will retire to the living room, where we shall talk and eventually dine on pumpkin pie (of which I am not terribly fond, but is still better than cheesecake) and apple pudding.

Someone will put some music on. I'm sure this time. I'll become stressed about my music assignment and run off to stare at it for half an hour. Then everyone will leave, laughing as they walk out the door.