By Sean Pearson
In an effort to support the vegan code, which is to not use anything which involves the harming or exploitation of animals, I’ve decided to forego the whole turkey thing this year and stick with a strictly animal amiable menu. The tofu turkey was easy enough. What I’m still trying to figure out is where to draw the line on the whole vegan thing. To me, the vegan lifestyle relies on vegetable profiling and unjustly implies that vegetables are functionally incapacitated, therefore placing them lower on the evolutionary food chain. Can you honestly say you’ve never felt the slightest bit guilty biting into a baby carrot?
Who can unequivocally state as fact that vegetables have no feelings? I can’t say I’ve ever actually seen an onion weep. However, I do know that I have feelings, and I’ve certainly been compared to a vegetable more than once.
What were we talking about again?
Oh yes, football.
Isn’t Thanksgiving great? Fun, food, family and football. (Not necessarily in that order.)
Interestingly enough, I wonder how many people know it takes several hours to cook a turkey. I think I missed that class in school. Sure, I knew my mother started Thanksgiving Day preparations weeks in advance and slept by the oven donning mittens and a baster on Thanksgiving eve. I thought it was just something she enjoyed doing. One of those quirky traditions they tell you about growing up. (Like how Uncle Mitch wore his lucky turkey toe socks every year and Auntie Lou always made us guess what odd morsel she threw into the lime green Jello this year.)
Growing up, my Thanksgiving Day consisted of crawling out of bed to see the Macy’s parade, dribbling milk down my chin as I shoveled spoonful upon spoonful of Cap’n Crunch Peanut Butter cereal down my throat. Occasional interruptions requesting I come and greet the latest relative that walked through the door were tolerated. I’d switch on the Atari and play a little Pong; pop in an 8-track of Styx and breathe in varying stages of our pending meal throughout the morning.
Finally, with my knees crammed up against the kid’s table, cleverly disguised as a card table, it was time to give thanks and eat. After an hour of hearing about Aunt Glynna’s bursitis and Grandma’s arthritis, explaining to everyone for the 25th time that I don’t like sweet potatoes and ignoring every sensor in my brain that was screaming at me to stop eating, I would stumble over to the couch.
With my head swimming in copious volumes of L-tryptophan, I’d struggle to stay awake as an endless stream of football games glowed in the corner. That is, until my dad needed the channel-changer. I didn’t have to get it, I WAS it. (Were you even paying attention when I mentioned Atari?) That’s right folks. If you have young children reading this, you may want to redirect their attention away from this to save them from the trauma. We had no remote control.
Wait, it gets worse.
I always made sure I prayed for sunshine on Thanksgiving. Any kind of cloud cover meant the possibility of having to stand by the TV holding a wire coat hanger wrapped in tin foil in various positions.
“Left, left, left. Stop! Right there,” my dad would say. “Now lift your right leg a little and touch the brass plant hanger. Perfect!”
You thought the 1968 “Heidi” incident was bad. It was nothing compared to the time I lost my balance during a Broncos/Steelers game with less than 15 seconds to go. At least we got cable the next year.
I’m thankful that I’m not actually going to be eating tofu turkey for Thanksgiving. I just can’t handle the guilt of all those baby tofus running around without a mother.
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