Well, we made it safely through our Halloween celebration with only a few complaints about ethnic and gender related issues. Now it’s Thanksgiving, the next traditional holiday, and so far, except for a small outcry from the Taras Bulba clan, who find the color orange offensive and would rather consider mauve or puce, it seems safe to continue without PC interruptions.
I’m sorry to say, the old fashioned trips to grandma’s house are now mostly considered old fashioned. So let’s try a few alternates and find out what’s being done to retain the pleasures of our fall holiday, brought about to replace overly sentimental glances back to the pilgrims two or three centuries ago:
Think, for example, about how modern Rednecks might celebrate:
You might be a Redneck if you celebrate Turkey Day dinner on a ping-pong table.
Or if the dinner is baked squirrel and dumplings, served on re-used paper plates.
Or if you use a full set of salad bowls which say Cool Whip on the side and use the ironing board as a buffet table, and your best dishes have Dixie printed on them.
On Thanksgiving Day you have to decide which pet to eat, or you might consider pork and beans as an alternative gourmet food.
Your turkey platter is an old hub cap and the secret ingredient for the stuffing comes from the bait shop. And you have to go outside to get something out of the “fridge.” You even use a tinny old Elvis jello mold.
Your only condiment is ketchup, and side dishes include beef jerky and Moon Pies, and your secret family recipe is illegal.
If you are doing the cooking of the turkey, here are directions:
Go buy a turkey. Take a drink of whiskey. Put turkey in the oven. Take two more drinks of whiskey. Set the oven to 375 degrees. Take three more whiskeys. Turk the basted. Whiskey another bottle of get. Ponder the meat thermometer. Glass yourself a pour of whiskey. Bake the whiskey for four hours. Take the oven out of the turkey. Floor the turkey up off the pick. And, last but not least, turk the carvey.
If you are the selector of the turkey for the family, you might’ve noticed a lady ahead of you, picking through the frozen Toms, all too small for her family. She asked the stock boy, “Do these turkeys get any bigger?” And the boy replied apologetically, “No ma’am; they’re all dead.”
Later, the leftovers!
‘Twas the night after Thanksgiving, but I just couldn’t sleep.
I tried counting backwards, I tried counting sheep.
The leftovers beckoned, the dark meat and white,
But I fought the temptation with all of my might.
Tossing and turning with anticipation, the thought of a snack became infatuation. So I raced to the kitchen, flung open the door – and gazed at the fridge full of goodies galore.
I gobbled up turkey and buttered potatoes, pickles and carrots, beans and tomatoes.
I felt myself swelling, so plump and so round, till all of a sudden I rose off the ground.
I crashed through the ceiling, floating into the sky, with a mouthful of pudding & a handful of pie.
But I managed to yell as I soared past the trees, “Happy eating to all; pass the cranberries, please!”
Asked to write a composition entitled, “What I’m thankful for on Thanksgiving,” a little girl wrote, “I am thankful that I’m not a turkey.”
On a beautiful serious note, here is the Indian Tecumseh’s Indian prayer of gratitude:
“When you arise in the morning, give thanks for the morning light, for your life and strength.
Give thanks for your food and the joy of living.
If you see no reason for giving thanks, the fault lies in yourself.”
And, finally, how about a repeat of Mickey Rooney’s Thanksgiving dedication:
“Dear Lord, I’ve been asked – nay, commanded – to thank Thee for the turkey before us – a turkey which was, no doubt, a lively, intelligent bird – a social being capable of actual affection – nuzzling its young with almost human-like compassion. Anyway, it’s dead and we’re gonna eat it. Please give our respects to its family.”
(Word of advice: at the Thanksgiving dinner, never eat more than you can lift.)
PS from me: I am thankful for kind readers who take the time to comment so favorably on this column (and, I’m happy to say, not all over sixty); since I’m my worst critic, your honest comments keep me going.