Thanksgivin' post
Thanksgiving
My first proper Thanksgiving. First one, you ask? How can a 30+ year old American be having his first Thanksgiving?
Easy, I reply, I have a mother, a Mother-in-law and a Grandmother. When would I have had to make Thanksgiving dinner? Now, I have cooked on Thanksgiving before. I have also ordered food from Boston Market and passed it off as my own. I have even gone so far as to cook a turkey breast and homemade rolls before, but this is the first time I have planned out a menu, invited guests, took the day off work and just cooked.
To start out we had to come up with a guest list of people who would appreciate the food. A group of Yanks wouldn’t have near as much fun as say, a group of Kiwis. We couldn’t find just Kiwis, so we had to mix it up a bit. The final list was two Kiwi, two Americans (Me and Michelle) a fellow North American from Darkest Canada and a token Englishman. We didn’t want to overexpose the Brits to too much Americanism. They get enough with President Bush and President Blair being best buddies. With the guest list planned out, someone had better come up with some food to eat. Looks like I have some work to do.
I could have ordered a frozen bird from Tesco one that was six months old and weighed 30 kilos. A bird who ate more growth hormone than corn and had abnormally large breasts for a male. I could have done that, but I am not sure about that sort of farming practice. I phoned up a friend at the Troubadour deli and asked if he could get me a good free ranger, maybe organic but that wouldn’t be a deal breaker if he couldn’t. He assured me he could get me a nice 'something' and we had a deal.
I purchased the rest of my goodies – all the basics: Cranberries, pumpkin pie, mash, stuffing, veggies and whatnot, then went to pick up my bird on Wednesday.
--Wednesday night—
I’ve got my bird. I named him Stumpy, he is a petite, five-kilo fella’ fresh from a farm in the North. I imagine he had a funny gobble accent and laughed a lot at nothing. I only assume this because the other person I know from up there acts the same way. Maybe I should have named him Kenny?
Back home, I need to brine my bird so he is tender and juicy for tomorrow. Water, salt and sugar and into the bath he goes, just as soon as I pluck the remaining feathers out of his skin. Extra feathers. Blech. Oh, and I best take the gravy pack out, no sense soaking a plastic bag overnight.
Right, gravy bag is poking out from under the neck flap, so I will just give it a tug and voila! A small plastic bag filled with ready made gravy—If this sounds odd to anyone, be advised that turkeys in the 'States come in little plastic bags with a net over them and pre-installed thermometer that pops out when they are done. The gravy pack is just that, a pack of gravy that you add to the pan drippings. We Americans don't really like to see or know for that matter, where our food comes from. We like things like chicken nuggets and little packets of pinkness wrapped in shrink-wrap on little absorbent towels. Animals are in zoos or are kept as pets, food is something we don’t like to associate them with.
Now that you are aware of how most Americans view food, when I tell you what happened next, you might understand how wierded out I have become. I opened up the back flap of my bird (Stumpy) and noticed a thing. I say it was a thing, because I couldn’t identify it right away. I am not an expert on Turkey anatomy, but I know this thing shouldn’t be in Stumpy. I am manly and hard though, so I rolled up my sleeve and shoved in my hand. I felt an odd foreign object with my fingertips, the texture was the same as Stumpy but it moved when I poked at it. I got the best grip I could and gave a tug. Nothing. I pulled a bit harder and came out with a neck and head. In an odd, ‘Silence of the Lambs’ meets ‘The Godfather’ moment, I stood there in my kitchen with my right hand on Stumpy’s breast holding a faceless, skinless Stumpy head in my left hand and swallowed the scream the rose up in my throat.
Why? Why would someone hack Stumpy’s little face off and then peel away his skin leaving a Gray’s Anatomy version of my bird’s face and neck behind? Not only leave it behind, but then stuff it up his behind to be found by the next unsuspecting person to come along. Who did he upset or betray? Is some crazed duck running around wearing a turkey suit made of real turkeys? What sort of mad world do we live in where defenseless turkeys have their face ripped off then have their heads stuffed up their bottoms for the sake of Americans?
Oh, that ‘Gravy Pack’ I spoke of earlier? Not gravy at all. It was all his other innards. I didn’t look but I gave the bag a squeeze and that was bad enough.
I had to soldier on though didn’t I? I had guests coming. What would they say without a turkey on Thanksgiving? So I made the rest of my dishes; Rolls, Turkey Noodle Soup, Cranberries, Pumpkin Pie, Stuffing, Gravy and Mash, the whole thing.
The kids showed up and dinner went well. Stumpy came out a bit dry but it wouldn’t have been Thanksgiving without an over dry bird. We ate and everyone seemed pleased, no one complained and the champagne flowed.
For a break between courses, Michelle had a fine idea. She handed out cardstock, crayons, paste and tissue paper then explained to the Non-Americans that they were all about to join a fine American tradition practiced by Seven year olds all over the States. Making Hand Turkeys. If you happen to not be acquainted with this fine tradition, allow me to explain. Heck, I’ll even demonstrate.
Step 1: On an A4 sheet of heavy white paper, place your hand palm down with your fingers spread out. Now, using a good old Number Two pencil, trace around the outside of your hand ending at the wrist. This will be your turkey.
Step 2: Complete the turkey body by rounding off the bottom, adding eyes to the thumb at feet at the bottom. Feel free to add a waddle thing to his neck, a beak and anything else you think a turkey should have. When drawing a waddle, try to imagine Ronald Regan, Barbara Bush, Your Aunt Millie, who ever might have a massive flap of extra skin on their throat.
Step 3: Decorate your bird using crayons, markers, bits of tissue paper, pipe cleaners, etc. It can look like what ever you want it to. Don’t feel like you have to make it look like a conventional turkey. This is your chance to let go of your accountant sensibilities and embrace your inner child-artist.
Step 4: Sign your creation and post it on your fridge/cubicle wall until Christmas. If you are in the UK and don’t have a fridge big enough to hold a sheet of A4, use some Blu-Tack and stick him up on the kitchen door.
Imagine five accountants and one artist sitting around a table making hand turkeys mildly buzzed on champagne and white wine. If you had to guess who made the most imaginative turkey you would be wrong. I wont brag, my turkey was nice (I named him Melvis) but he was nothing compared to what the bean counters churned out. These things had tissue paper feathers, glued on googley eyes, manufactured pipe cleaner wings, everything.
After turkey making, we hit the pumpkin pie and more wine, then we tinkered with our hand turkeys a bit more and even constructed a little man out of pipe cleaners and a lime.
The kids all headed home and Michelle and I cleaned up. Everyone had a lovely time and it was good to share some wacky Americana with the local and not-so-locals.
The only thing odd that has come out of this Thanksgiving, I have switched teams. I now play for the vegetarian group. The turkey head up the behind thing was a bit more than I could handle and I have gone off meat. Well, sort of. I am not too pedantic about it and I still eat fish and other things without eyelids. I drew the line at eyelids. I figure some shellfish and the occasional swimmer wont kill me. I like the fact that fish are one of the last things we eat that we still have to hunt. Everything else we just grow from birth and then hit them in the head really hard when they get big enough.
I bet not many people think about it that way.
My first proper Thanksgiving. First one, you ask? How can a 30+ year old American be having his first Thanksgiving?
Easy, I reply, I have a mother, a Mother-in-law and a Grandmother. When would I have had to make Thanksgiving dinner? Now, I have cooked on Thanksgiving before. I have also ordered food from Boston Market and passed it off as my own. I have even gone so far as to cook a turkey breast and homemade rolls before, but this is the first time I have planned out a menu, invited guests, took the day off work and just cooked.
To start out we had to come up with a guest list of people who would appreciate the food. A group of Yanks wouldn’t have near as much fun as say, a group of Kiwis. We couldn’t find just Kiwis, so we had to mix it up a bit. The final list was two Kiwi, two Americans (Me and Michelle) a fellow North American from Darkest Canada and a token Englishman. We didn’t want to overexpose the Brits to too much Americanism. They get enough with President Bush and President Blair being best buddies. With the guest list planned out, someone had better come up with some food to eat. Looks like I have some work to do.
I could have ordered a frozen bird from Tesco one that was six months old and weighed 30 kilos. A bird who ate more growth hormone than corn and had abnormally large breasts for a male. I could have done that, but I am not sure about that sort of farming practice. I phoned up a friend at the Troubadour deli and asked if he could get me a good free ranger, maybe organic but that wouldn’t be a deal breaker if he couldn’t. He assured me he could get me a nice 'something' and we had a deal.
I purchased the rest of my goodies – all the basics: Cranberries, pumpkin pie, mash, stuffing, veggies and whatnot, then went to pick up my bird on Wednesday.
--Wednesday night—
I’ve got my bird. I named him Stumpy, he is a petite, five-kilo fella’ fresh from a farm in the North. I imagine he had a funny gobble accent and laughed a lot at nothing. I only assume this because the other person I know from up there acts the same way. Maybe I should have named him Kenny?
Back home, I need to brine my bird so he is tender and juicy for tomorrow. Water, salt and sugar and into the bath he goes, just as soon as I pluck the remaining feathers out of his skin. Extra feathers. Blech. Oh, and I best take the gravy pack out, no sense soaking a plastic bag overnight.
Right, gravy bag is poking out from under the neck flap, so I will just give it a tug and voila! A small plastic bag filled with ready made gravy—If this sounds odd to anyone, be advised that turkeys in the 'States come in little plastic bags with a net over them and pre-installed thermometer that pops out when they are done. The gravy pack is just that, a pack of gravy that you add to the pan drippings. We Americans don't really like to see or know for that matter, where our food comes from. We like things like chicken nuggets and little packets of pinkness wrapped in shrink-wrap on little absorbent towels. Animals are in zoos or are kept as pets, food is something we don’t like to associate them with.
Now that you are aware of how most Americans view food, when I tell you what happened next, you might understand how wierded out I have become. I opened up the back flap of my bird (Stumpy) and noticed a thing. I say it was a thing, because I couldn’t identify it right away. I am not an expert on Turkey anatomy, but I know this thing shouldn’t be in Stumpy. I am manly and hard though, so I rolled up my sleeve and shoved in my hand. I felt an odd foreign object with my fingertips, the texture was the same as Stumpy but it moved when I poked at it. I got the best grip I could and gave a tug. Nothing. I pulled a bit harder and came out with a neck and head. In an odd, ‘Silence of the Lambs’ meets ‘The Godfather’ moment, I stood there in my kitchen with my right hand on Stumpy’s breast holding a faceless, skinless Stumpy head in my left hand and swallowed the scream the rose up in my throat.
Why? Why would someone hack Stumpy’s little face off and then peel away his skin leaving a Gray’s Anatomy version of my bird’s face and neck behind? Not only leave it behind, but then stuff it up his behind to be found by the next unsuspecting person to come along. Who did he upset or betray? Is some crazed duck running around wearing a turkey suit made of real turkeys? What sort of mad world do we live in where defenseless turkeys have their face ripped off then have their heads stuffed up their bottoms for the sake of Americans?
Oh, that ‘Gravy Pack’ I spoke of earlier? Not gravy at all. It was all his other innards. I didn’t look but I gave the bag a squeeze and that was bad enough.
I had to soldier on though didn’t I? I had guests coming. What would they say without a turkey on Thanksgiving? So I made the rest of my dishes; Rolls, Turkey Noodle Soup, Cranberries, Pumpkin Pie, Stuffing, Gravy and Mash, the whole thing.
The kids showed up and dinner went well. Stumpy came out a bit dry but it wouldn’t have been Thanksgiving without an over dry bird. We ate and everyone seemed pleased, no one complained and the champagne flowed.
For a break between courses, Michelle had a fine idea. She handed out cardstock, crayons, paste and tissue paper then explained to the Non-Americans that they were all about to join a fine American tradition practiced by Seven year olds all over the States. Making Hand Turkeys. If you happen to not be acquainted with this fine tradition, allow me to explain. Heck, I’ll even demonstrate.
Step 1: On an A4 sheet of heavy white paper, place your hand palm down with your fingers spread out. Now, using a good old Number Two pencil, trace around the outside of your hand ending at the wrist. This will be your turkey.
Step 2: Complete the turkey body by rounding off the bottom, adding eyes to the thumb at feet at the bottom. Feel free to add a waddle thing to his neck, a beak and anything else you think a turkey should have. When drawing a waddle, try to imagine Ronald Regan, Barbara Bush, Your Aunt Millie, who ever might have a massive flap of extra skin on their throat.
Step 3: Decorate your bird using crayons, markers, bits of tissue paper, pipe cleaners, etc. It can look like what ever you want it to. Don’t feel like you have to make it look like a conventional turkey. This is your chance to let go of your accountant sensibilities and embrace your inner child-artist.
Step 4: Sign your creation and post it on your fridge/cubicle wall until Christmas. If you are in the UK and don’t have a fridge big enough to hold a sheet of A4, use some Blu-Tack and stick him up on the kitchen door.
Imagine five accountants and one artist sitting around a table making hand turkeys mildly buzzed on champagne and white wine. If you had to guess who made the most imaginative turkey you would be wrong. I wont brag, my turkey was nice (I named him Melvis) but he was nothing compared to what the bean counters churned out. These things had tissue paper feathers, glued on googley eyes, manufactured pipe cleaner wings, everything.
After turkey making, we hit the pumpkin pie and more wine, then we tinkered with our hand turkeys a bit more and even constructed a little man out of pipe cleaners and a lime.
The kids all headed home and Michelle and I cleaned up. Everyone had a lovely time and it was good to share some wacky Americana with the local and not-so-locals.
The only thing odd that has come out of this Thanksgiving, I have switched teams. I now play for the vegetarian group. The turkey head up the behind thing was a bit more than I could handle and I have gone off meat. Well, sort of. I am not too pedantic about it and I still eat fish and other things without eyelids. I drew the line at eyelids. I figure some shellfish and the occasional swimmer wont kill me. I like the fact that fish are one of the last things we eat that we still have to hunt. Everything else we just grow from birth and then hit them in the head really hard when they get big enough.
I bet not many people think about it that way.
Sunday: Once again I am faced with the task of exercising my fingers as opposed to my biceps, my mind instead of my chest. I made a pact with myself and my Brother in Law that I would get as big as Marky-Mark Wahlberg if not by Christmas, then just after. Not Marky Mark when he was in the Funky Bunch or doing the Calvin Klein ads. (That is just too big. No one who has a job and a life outside of the gym can look like 'The Governator' all the time) I am thinking Marky-Mark as he appears playing Vince Papale of the Philadelphia Eagles in the film "Invincible". Some poetic license had to be taken in that role. Papale is over six foot and I think Mark is about five foot, maybe five foot three if you stood him on a box and he is just massive. Shorter people just seem to get bigger faster than not-so-short people. This is not a fact, this is just something I have noticed. Anyway. If you saw the film, my goal is to get a little more buff like Marky. Sadly, I am lucky to get to the gym twice a week. I am okay with that so far, because I have been working out my mind (and my fingers) more than I have in the last year and I think that counts for something. I promise to keep you all informed as to my Marky-Mark Status. You wont care, but I will tell you anyway. 
On to something book related. I have finished the ordering and tracking of ALL the books for our big University Club Book Fair coming up on November 29. After several additions and subtractions, the "Committee" has sent me a final list and the books are all sitting in boxes in our secret distribution center waiting to be delivered on the day of the event. We will have around forty authors chained to desks with pens super-glued to their fingers. Piles of their books will be stacked in front of them and you, the general public, will be allowed to come to the event, ask the authors questions and have them sign their books. Think of all the Holiday gifts you can get out of the way in one fell swoop. Please don't feel bad about us having authors chained to desks. Authors are kept in this manner by editors all over America. As there is no such thing as PETA (People for the Ethical Treatment of Authors) some authors are kept in rather shoddy environments and forced to endure some very nasty things. Things I have only read about in Dave Barry columns. I will have to assume that Dave is an authority on the treatment of authors given that he is one and works in Miami. I believe he is starting a new charity to provide comfy chairs to authors and if he isn't he will be soon.