I’m a pig on Thanksgiving. I could also be a pig the rest of the year. But on Thanksgiving, I think about it. Feed me, serve me, comb my toes. If I have to do anything other than sneeze, I feel overwhelmed.
(Before you rise to protest and send me back to 1955 where I belong, let me say that I owe my wife this annual crisis of indulgence. Without her consent, I would slap peanut butter on toast. ‘one day. )
This is our strangest vacation. It’s the only day I pray for Siberian time, so I won’t feel guilty about marrying the couch, where every Thanksgiving I watch the Detroit Lions. It’s strange.
It’s the only day I go out for the electric football game. I installed the little plastic footballers in their frozen poses. Flip the switch that vibrates the field. Watch the guys go up and down and go around in circles. Listen, kids, the 1993 Bengals.
The big buzz of the game freaks out the dog. Or maybe the dog goes crazy when he sees the linebacker lock his arms with the wide receiver, reenacting the great moments in Hee-Haw’s story. I do not know. I never asked him. It’s a dog.
He reacts by biting the heads of the players. Even Joe Burrow couldn’t score under these conditions. Talk about cutting off the ferryman.
A year while I was sliding the game out of its box, a dead fly fell from the box to the ground. I picked him up and put him in the lineup as an extra running back. He was excellent at a pickup blitz. Thank you.
I like to have a drink on Thanksgiving. Most of the time, I’m dry until 5 p.m. Thursday, I’ll be on Keystone # 4 at the end of the Macy’s show. Thank you!
This serves a few purposes. Sobriety and Lions don’t mix. And I need something for the pain if I accidentally eat asp.
Speaking of inedible foods that make you want to fast, no day on the calendar has more than Thanksgiving. The day has built its reputation on solid dishes such as turkey, mashed potatoes and pumpkin pie. Dude, is that a smokescreen. The rest of the stuff, I wouldn’t give my head eater dog.
I’d rather eat a glass plate than a bite of Jell-O salad. Pieces of carrots suspended in gel. The pilgrims did not pray for this.
Brussels sprouts are little bitter nuggets of plant poison. And stay away from me with the cranberry sauce, especially the canned junk with the rings still visible on the shaking sides of the gooey cylinder. There’s a reason no one eats this stuff any other day of the year.
I don’t particularly like green beans. I really don’t like green beans with bits of bacon fat covering them like jewels draped over Deion’s neck.
Maybe you don’t know Hoppin ‘John. It’s a southern thing. Black-eyed peas, rice and others. It’s called hoppin ‘because that’s what old John does as fast as he can get away from the table, when he sees his mom bring that bowl of smoldering mess to the party. Gag me with a kill.
What are organ meats exactly? I used to think of a giblet as that pink thing that hangs from a turkey’s chin all the way down its neck. “Look at the kill on that bird, Timmy. ” It’s not correct. On the one hand, turkeys do not have a chin.
“The liver, heart, gizzard and neck of a chicken,” says the dictionary.
Are you kidding me? We put this in the sauce and. . . Eat it?
Excuse me while I go to see the Lions.
Thanksgiving dessert is almost foolproof. Pie is unanimously thanked. Unless it’s minced meat. Which is not hash, because hash is an adjective or a verb and not a food, and it is not meat, because meat tastes good. The minced meat contains citrus zest and. . . suet. Someone alerts all the finches in the family.
For a special treat, brush your ground meat with a little aspic.
As a rule, our family does not get exotic with the main course. You will not see a deer on the table, nor a duck or rabbit. Thank you.
No fake turtle soup (fake turtles are endangered) no anchovies in the salad. No road accident. No so-called shaking or rolling food. Thank you.
On Thanksgiving Day, the only thing more important than doing nothing is the extra napkin that you have hidden in your lap. It’s for Brussels sprouts, cranberry sauce, Jell-O salad, Hoppin ‘John, giblets, ground meat and bacon fat. And oh yes, the asp. If the towel is not handy, try the dog. He eats anything, including soccer players.