Despite my body shape resembling that big buttered namesake bird
itself and that Thanksgiving happens to be one of my favorite holidays, I still
approach the traditional fam-feasting with a little consternation. Sure the travel is a pain and all bets are off
as to my belt’s last lonely sole hole will be able to cinch up the collateral
damage after a 5000 calorie snack, but that too is not my biggest worry. No I sweat bullets over the really frightening
reality which make stuffed ‘carUncle TOMS’
like me weak in the wattle and that’s ‘who
left da’ lumps in the taters n’ gravers?’
Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining about the
occasional stray spud that missed the mixer and didn’t win the race through the
ricer. I guess I can also forgive the bold, brave n’ bready chunk of gunk that stows away from the stuffing
and inadvertently into my brown gravy boat of pureed pleasure. But please don’t try to sneak in and fool me
with a flotilla of stringy beans or slip in globs of greasy giblets to test my
zest and goad my gag-reflex.
You see I have to always be on guard for the unexpected lascivious
lump should an errant somethin’-chunk
cozy up too closely to my uvula bump. Believe me nobody, not even a food sci-fi-entist wants to see a giant
fat-cat sitting at the kiddy table reversing a cup of gravy’s smooth n’ true course
in mid-stream. Why is it so hard to understand, like my groin I prefer my gravy
strained, the jello junk-less n’
stripped clean, and my mashies uniformly smashied, then whipped into a sublime-grind cream.
Considering I am just lucky to be uncaged and temporarily free
from the torch-waving townies, it is odd for such a persnickety and moody rude dude-y
to have so many rules about delicious snood foodies. Yes I know as a bulky beggar
there are definite politeness conventions to follow especially on a day where
giving thanks is spelled out right in the name. So never fear, even a mouthy
Meleagris like me won’t look a gift gobbler in the beak and will take my lumps
quietly. After all imitation is the sincerest form of ‘Plattery’ so my
turkey-neck and I will honor my big bird brethren, and all who prepare him with
an appreciative 21 ‘done-button’ salute!
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