Before I settle in for the day and start my real writing, I thought I’d take a moment to lament the passing of Thanksgiving. It’s not that I get all torqued up about said holiday, and it’s not because mine was some horrific dysfunctional family circus. I’m in mourning simply because I didn’t get any damn turkey. Okay, I got a little. But not enough to make me happy.
By the time dinner started and I’d done the rounds at the table and finally got to the platter holding my prize, I found I had little room left on my plate for it. After careful orchestration, I managed to squeeze a small piece of breast between the cranberry sauce and cranberry orange relish (both being must-haves for dipping in my book). After sitting down, I did consider getting more, but then was drawn into a half-hour discussion with my nephew about how throwing his food on the floor really didn’t count as eating it. By the time I got to my waiting plate, I just wasn’t all that interested anymore.
To be fair, my lack of enthusiasm might have stemmed from the three pounds of cheese I’d eaten earlier. Or the half-gallon of bean dip. Or the handfuls of celery dipped in bacon horseradish sauce (It did cross my mind once that I was flirting with a heart attack, but I’m happy to say I’m still alive). But another type of damage had been done. By the time the main course rolled around, I’d eaten more than I usually do in an entire day.
Once the cleanup was finished, the remains were shipped home with my brother’s family, and by eight o’clock, the smell had vacated the house and it was like the turkey had never existed at all. You can almost hear the tears spilling onto the keyboard, can’t you?
I could make my own, of course. But, two people and an undisclosed number of felines don’t quite warrant the purchase and preparation of an enormous bird. I could just buy a breast, but there’s something very disappointing about a wingless, legless football coming out of the oven. It just doesn’t have the same feel to it.
There’s something about that day, that one day when turkey seems the most wonderful, delectable creation on earth. Most other days, it’s relegated to those watching their health — the bastardized child of hamburger meat and pork sausage, marginally ahead of tofu as a second (or third, or fourth) choice menu item. But, on one day a year, it shines. And I missed it. I feel like Linus in the pumpkin patch.
Here I sit with my pre-made cranberry squeeze bottle, my extra-squishy white bread and jar of mayonnaise — my sad little party whose guest of honor never showed. Oh well. I guess there’s always Christmas. And those who bring ham will tremble before me.