So much to be thankful for this Thanksgiving. So few words to write it in. Yet, I shall try …
I’m thankful that the turkey defrosted in time — Thank you, thank you, thank you … As the Thanksgiving cook in my family, I spend literally months worrying about this. The nightmares begin in September. I leap out of bed in the middle of the night drenched in sweat screaming, “It’s time to take the turkey out of the freezer! I have to take the turkey out of the freezer!”
For weeks it goes on like this. I worry. I panic. I research the latest defrosting techniques (light massage with warm butter and incense). I work myself into a total turkey frenzy thinking about it. Until the big day comes. The big day that I have marked on the calendar — thaw day! I have trained for it and readied myself mentally for it. And as soon as it gets here … I inevitably forget to take the turkey out. Every year!
Which leaves me scrambling. Wondering if I can fit the giant chunk of frozen granite in the microwave. Wondering how my wife will feel about jamming her hair dryer into the cavity of the bird. Wondering if anyone has ever tried both defrosting and roasting a bird at the same time.
Ultimately I find myself at the kitchen sink running warm water over it for hours while I plunge my frostbitten hand into the bird to wiggle free the frozen neck and disintegrating giblets.
So I am thankful that my turkey finally defrosted, and that no one got violent salmonella poisoning … or a chunk of frozen granite bird.
I’m thankful that my mother and her sister taught my daughter another humdinger of a curse word — That will be fun to explain in the principal’s office next week. Thank you. They will do this during one of their many Thanksgiving arguments. Arguments that are epic, rattling the support beams in my old house and causing neighbors to report what they thought was a mild earthquake.
What do they argue over? Well, what do family members ever argue about during the holidays? Inconsequential nothings. One will say, “This wine smells like raspberries.” Then the other will say, “No, it smells like blackberry currant and only a fool wouldn’t know that!” This will lead the first to say, “You prickly oaf, how dare you display your utter and total ignorance of fruit … and on Thanksgiving no less!!!”
Seventeen exchanges later — which now inexplicably include geo-political commentary and how the Romans once used roofing thatch as toilet paper — the cannon is fired. Earth-shaking, the curse word erupts onto the world. It will leave scorch marks on the floor and cause the last of the season’s acorns to drop. This will signal it’s time to open up a new bottle of wine and start arguing about crackers.
I’m thankful that I learned the ancient art of food compression years ago — Only amateurs get full on Thanksgiving. Stuffed and unable to move, they beach themselves on the sofa and roll about for hours while complaining how the last bite of stuffing nearly killed them. But eating a holiday meal is a lot like packing for a big trip: You must be selective in what you choose; you must fold everything tight; and you must use long-forgotten muscles to trash-compact it all into the depths of your stomach. It also helps if, mid-way through the meal, you ask a family member to jump up and down on your stomach right before dessert. I give thanks for that knowledge.
And of course, I’m thankful that I have the most amazing wife and daughter in the world — all that truly matters. I give thanks for that. (Plus, that I didn’t send either one of them to the hospital from frozen salmonella poisoning.)