There are sixteen in line for the smorgasbord, but only fifteen of the nice, compartmentalized, paper plates. They come in packs of fifteen. Instead of buying two, the hosts (Aunt Jo and Uncle Greg) deliberated and deliberated and finally decided to sneak a plain white plate at the bottom of the stack. Poor little Ted, who seemed to be everyone's nephew, was last in line. Little Ted isn't so little anymore, certainly not enough to be sympathetic. So he's pretty much stuck with the dingy old dish.
At the table, and after a Thanksgiving prayer, the family starts shoveling down their meal. Their lips pucker at the tart of lightly sauteed cranberries, sopped up with subtly seasoned slices of bird. They admire the duality of the two potato mashes - sweet and standard - and the sneaking suggestion of sage in the stuffing.
All Ted can taste is the color brown.
