November 22, 2005
Most people donÂ’t have the common sense to put the bird in, fill the fryer with oil and then take the bird out and get the oil hot. Instead, the fill the fryer with too much oil, get it close to the temperature of the sun and throw in a thirty pound, partially frozen Butterball. When that thing hits the oil it goes up like Michael JacksonÂ’s hair on a Pepsi shoot, not including the displaced oil that splashes out of the fryer and onto linoleum, which I believe is extruded from petroleum products. Last year something like 400 homes caught fire attempting this trick and I predict the numbers will double this year.
In days of old, boiling oil was a great weapon when poured over the castle walls. Imagine the potential in the average American kitchen. SomebodyÂ’s Uncle Frank will probably learn a lesson the hard way.
Aside from the skin, I have no use for turkey. I find it unappealing in taste and texture.
But even though I donÂ’t care for turkey, I am a fan of Thanksgiving. IÂ’ll be at the in-lawÂ’s with many friends in tow and the drinking always starts early. We usually drink champagne on the holidays and no one is about to complain that itÂ’s too early to drink when youÂ’re uncorking the good stuff. We generally stand around in the kitchen patting each other on the back and swilling drinks and demanding to be fed.
I find the waiting to be the biggest problem. ThatÂ’s because my family are liars. The day before we always call over to see what time weÂ’re eating. TheyÂ’ll say 2:00PM, when they know damned well it wonÂ’t be until 4:00PM. They lie because they want to spend time with us, which is odd, because I canÂ’t comprehend anyone wanting to spend time with us.
On the way over there I guarantee that some doofus will be outside hanging his Christmas lights, which will start my wife up and IÂ’ll have to listen to how IÂ’d better get our shit up right away and not wait too long like last year. And when we finally arrive weÂ’ll walk in on a shouting match about the turkey, and how itÂ’s not cooking fast enough or hot enough, or when the tin foil should be taken off to brown the skin, even though it wonÂ’t be ready for hours.
So we stand around the kitchen and drink champagne until a card game breaks out or we can start poaching food. Some will sneak out for a smoke, others will incite slanderous talk about other relatives and the majority will bitch and moan about anything that comes to mind. And when the bird is done everyone will argue about the proper way to carve it and how this family, “doesn’t have a goddamned sharp knife” and there won’t be enough of the same type of plates for everyone and it will ruin the photos.
Somehow, I find comfort in all this. There we are, all together and complaining as a family. ItÂ’s hard to describe. And when the time comes to trot the bird out everyone takes on a solemn demeanor and we go around the table and everyone expresses what theyÂ’re thankful for this year. I never use to participate and this whole thing used to make me very uncomfortable. The first couple of years tried to hide in the bathroom for this part but they refused to start until everyone was seated. Nowadays I donÂ’t mind so much. I have a lot to be thankful for.
Since I donÂ’t eat turkey IÂ’ll fill up on my old ladyÂ’s pecan crusted sweet potato pie and mashed potatoes and gravy and swill more champagne. And towards the end, when the pumpkin pie comes out IÂ’ll fill half my coffee cup with good cognac and reflect on the fact I donÂ’t have to work the next day. And while the mess is being cleaned IÂ’ll sit there with my daughter on my lap and plan a graceful exit strategy as the old lady packs up as much of the leftovers as she can before her siblings can get it all.
And when we get home and put the kid to bed I’ll pour myself a single malt and sit on my lazy ass—sated—as my wife and I look through the pay channels for amusement.
Happy Thanksgiving.
Posted by: Pixy Misa at
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November 21, 2005
I looked up and saw that she was pointing at Taco Bell. This was a strange development. WeÂ’ve driven by the place a thousand times since we lived in these parts but have never stopped. I had no intention of doing so this time either.
“Daddy, stop! You said we were on a date and I could pick where we eat!”
“That’s because you’ve been reasonable up to now. You pick Wendy’s every week.”
“But today I don’t want Wendy’s. I want that!”
I swung around and pulled into the parking lot. After ten minutes of reasonable discussion we went inside, against my better judgment. Soon afterward we sat at a table and unwrapped our bounty, which was somewhat disturbing. I have a thing about Mexican food. I like it a lot. I’d lived in California long enough to know good Mexican food and my expectations were minimal—but this was hideous. I made the mistake of looking inside my burrito and it appeared to be made out of brown paste.
“Mine looks like dog food.”
“Daddy, stop saying bad things and eat your lunch.”
I hadnÂ’t been to a Taco Bell in roughly fifteen years. I had no idea what to order so I got four burrito supremes. I could only stomach three of them and it was tough getting them down but I was starving.
An hour later I was watching the game when the storm hit. The first wave wasnÂ’t as violent as I thought it would be, but the next wave had all the elements of a classic green meat attack. IÂ’ll spare you the details, but I was in there long enough to miss almost an entire quarter of the Eagles game. The kid was unfazed and unaffected. The entire time I was on the throne she was drawing pictures and shoving them under the door, which might have cheered me up if they werenÂ’t pictures of doggies eating Taco Bell.
She kept singing, “Fart, fart, fart, FART…fart, fart, fart, FART.” To the tune of the opening of Beethoven’s fifth symphony and then laughing hysterically.
I refused to reply.
My wife eventually got in on the act, humiliating me even further, before taking a more serious note and rattling off a long list of chores that needed to be done, including measuring the windows for the new window treatments and taking the car to the dealership on Monday. All while I sat there, depressed and cramping, and wishing I was someplace else. If you canÂ’t get some peace in there, thereÂ’s truly no hope. I stayed in there until they had gotten bored and gone about their business. And I slinked back to the couch and pretended to be asleep for a while.
And thus, another Sunday gone the way of Hades. Mocked by my family and frowned upon by the gods.
Acta est fabula, plaudite!
Posted by: Pixy Misa at
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