Color Me Crusty

Maybe it has always been this way but am I the only one who sees the world through rose and green colored 3D glasses around the last quarter of the year? The truth is that as of late even orange and black Halloween is also getting flocked and being horned in on by rutting Rudolph and his deer friends. Thank goodness Valentine’s red letter day and the white, red n’ Independence blue have stayed true and somehow have avoided being elf-hijacked too.

Yes, apparently now Christmas is not just one day of the year but in fact extends its over-ripe aroma to all of Fall and hangs around a little too long like that last plate of dark-meat leftovers from Thanksgiving. No just because I set a few mousetraps in the attic around the gold garland and stored ornamental rainbow balls doesn’t mean I’m the pied piper of gripey Grinches at all. But honestly, what other holiday totally consumes white light to make life costlier, less productive and an even deeper black hole than it already is?

I don’t see Chanukah getting in my way too much, but  then again even if I were Jewish the wife would never allow a cold gassy giant like me to bounce around next to a bunch of lit candles in a tattered flannel t-shirt. Ol’ Cinco de Mayo and Groundhog’s day don’t ordinarily tax too much of my tiny brain twists either, though inexplicably now I am hungry for five pork sandwiches. The outlier eggy Easter tries to rudely intrude Spring with its funny bunnies, fuzzy ducks, and PEEPing treats too. But in the end with only a month of brown choco hype n’ hubbub to last, even a Winter wonderland whiner like me can frown, bear it, and stand fast.  

Actually I think most of my crusty Christmas recriminations have more to do with my personal geezer leanings rather than society’s oblivious overreach toward an overbearing holiday marketing niche. After all even this Scrooge still gets sucked up by Santa’s jolly jingle and rebuff of we - the far less jovial. It’s just when your hair and skin begins to turn pasty-white like Frosty’s filling, elderly life turns exceedingly telling. Especially so when you’re constantly reminded for months on end that you now need those colorful candy canes for walking rather than to eat as oh so sweet treats!

Real Turkey Stuffing

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!

Sweet Potato Delivery System

Potatoes and I are a lot alike. Oh sure my skin may be a bit thicker and my eyes are a tad glassier but otherwise white starchy spuds and bulky buds like myself have always been the best of friends. I know I should focus on less caloric carbs and eat more greens, but when you cater to taters of that particular sheen, they can inspire unexpected ill thrills for the gills and wet public scenes.

So with my predisposition to tasty tubers I guess I need to look for a more acceptable color in my favorite ‘booty-building’ rooty foodie ? Maybe a cool shade of red, gold, or if recent restaurant reconnaissance is to be trusted, a fake canned tan Orange, like something rusted. Yes, why so suddenly does the lowly sweet potato get to show its bronzed complexion on the front of every menu, yet its ashen cousins are thrown back in the mud under the dud-spud truck.

Sometimes I think these eatery geniuses all steal the same ideas and rush to shove the same exact stuff down my gullet all at the same time. Why must all of my tots, chips, n’ fries be spawned from a Yam daddy to insight ‘sighs’, but  the poor old Yukon, red skin, and russets among us face turned up noses and get cussed at. If only there were a way to eat the sweets with all their fiber and healthy vitamins A through E without the endless 'benefit' campaign haranguing me. 

Yes I guess when I eat out and graze, I’m a little sensitive about facing the tater terrors and being ‘saved’ by half-baked nutritional potato heads at every turn of the laminated menu. I’m not bitter against the sweet potato itself just the uber tuber fanatics who want to boil me in butter if I potato-pamper myself to a spud of any other color but orange. A truce is in order to this civil war since my issue is more about delivery than what yam I can ram into my fam. So I turn my big mouth South and set beady eyes towards mashed surrender and compromise, with food of true-blue orange hue and healthy ties – a double oven dose of Sweet Potato PIES!

A Thanks-giver story

I know Thanksgiving is getting close when my Mother starts turning her ceramic jack-o-lanterns and candle holders around to hide their faces and reveal their backsides to the world. Don’t worry it is not as disrespectful as it sounds, it’s just that nobody wants to see legions of leering Halloween pumpkin pusses glaring and staring back while trying to stealthily sneak a snack before the big holiday feast. I already feel guilty enough since I have to violate a frozen turkey’s personal space and literally get under the thing’s skin with a mixture of herbs, spices, and a warm mayo massage.

A true thanks-giver like me will eat just about any broiled or baked deceased beast as long as you park those sickly sweet potatoes and chunky cranberry chutney around back where the slop trough wafts. It makes sense since portly Pilgrims like me cannot reach the peak of the day until my belt slips a slot and I have made an indelible impression upon any house guests and at least one rickety recliner.  Yes, there is nothing like pinching a sofa after a hearty carb-laden meal and a couple of slices of warm pecan and pumpkin pie.

As far as Thanksgiving traditions go I have never given in to the ‘football thing’ so in that regard I am probably a bit of a disappointment to my Father who IS a fan. It’s not that my family ever expected me to be interested in contact sports anyway since I only wear glasses to read restaurant menus and newsprint. I just figure that my clan probably hoped for a head injury to explain my odd behaviors and occasional use of eye make-up to block the glare from the white caps of whipped cream desserts.  

Of course the real meaning of a traditional Thanksgiving gathering is not entirely lost on me. I know the event means a lot more than parades, excess caloric consumption, and gadfly gossip about off-centered relatives and brainless  causality arguments over which came first, ‘the chicken or the maize’. Indeed I always remember to celebrate and give thanks to what REALLY matters on this special day - an ad-laden lead-weight of a newspaper brimming over with Black Friday discounts n’ deals!

Spit Shine

As someone who can attest to the virtues of being both double-stuffed and sickening sweet at the same time, you might think that goo-filled food-fun is a big part of my life. While on occasion I’ll munch on a hillbilly brunch featuring the fragrant siren’s song of Pop Tarts, pizza rolls, Rolaids and Mountain Dew, it is not my regular routine. As a rule, especially when eating, whales of my ilk don’t like surprises so naturally I flee from cream-filled krill that squirt up my snout like jelly-filled pastries , cold pies, or candies with concealed liquid centers.

Sure sugar is sugar so I should look forward to titillating my teeth with a few shots of Pop Rocks or plunging my prow into a donut pumped up on puddin’ but that’s not the case. I despise most pastries that have the telltale signs of a powder coating and a diminutive yet wet singular orifice poked in the side. Even Twinkies and Ding Dongs barely make the cut but at least their ‘entry wounds’ are underneath so I don’t have to re-live the thought of them succumbing to a gruesome duff-stuffing.

I seem to do a bit better with hot pot pies, or warmer foods roughed up and puffed but I am still not a fan of un-spooling a gavage to top off a turkey with bread crumbs or plump up the liver of a goose. Heck, I even shy away from canoodling my car’s tank with one of those long n’ greasy, nasty gas nozzle umbilicals, because everyone knows that the ‘E’ on the gauge means ‘ENOUGH’ still to get you there. Yeah, though I take up a lot of space, it’s clear I’ll never work there because black holes, the unknown, and I aren’t friends and don’t get along - plus like most sane people I don’t like vacuums.

I think the REAL problem is that I already have enough trouble keeping my kisser clean without the added worry of secretly squeezed food doo, and mixed moo-goo too from frappe’ filled-foods covering my mug. Please don’t look at me, give me the finger bowl, or pass the napkins since eruptions of this order can only call for a true industrial strength cleaner.  Believe me I KNOW - as unappetizing as it is for others to witness, to get the stuck gunk off completely, it’s a lot worse for me to LICK this!

Red Letter Days

Out of all the holidays, July 4^th used to be my favorite because I could blow stuff up (other than pool toys) without going to jail. My second favorite holiday is Halloween since I’m free to walk among the living and scare kids on one night as much as they scare me daily over the rest of the year. If I do a good job of tricking treatsters, I can score even MORE sugar than I normally get when dressed as a weird geezer slogging to my neighbors with a sweet recipe in hand. 

Next on that list is Thanksgiving because it truly is a day of simple pleasures like stuffing bread into the dark headless cavity of poultry and buttering up loose pink skin (sometimes on the turkey too). St. Patrick’s isn’t bad when you’re as partial to pinching as I am and VETerans day is really special because like most folks, I love patriotic pets.   So what about the status of big ‘gifty’ days like Christmas, the day when I was hatched, and of course everybody’s fav holiday - tax day on April 15th. 

Christmas-time feels more like a noisy reindeer race starting with Kwanzaa (which I assume is on black Friday), seven days of candles pitchfork-perched in the middle, and ends  by cleaning up annoying tinsel, enormous credit card and travel bills. Beyond Santa’s blinding BLURR on my saddle so many taxes are due by New Years, which means by mid April I’m sick of giving the government or anyone ANYTHING, except maybe an oversized foam finger.

My birthday dropped a few notches at a young age when my parents FORGOT what date I was actually born on and made me wait sleeplessly in anticipation until the day AFTER to celebrate. Now my b-day is more of a celebration of still having thick wild hair, though I’m not sure if it counts as much when it knots endlessly from my ears, eyebrows, nose and toes? Don’t worry though I intend to seek revenge when my folk’s old-fogey faculties become completely compromised by the ravages of time. Yes, I will simply write only ONE loving letter to my parent’s filled with praise and prose. I intend to thoughtlessly enthrall them with my attention and affections revealed in that same letter OVER and OVER again for every holiday. Now that’s what I call a real ‘READ letter day’ – of course, as long as I can remember what I wrote in that letter the last time so I can write it AGAIN!