Thanksgiving: Eat, Talk About Food, Sleep, Repeat
I was born in Spain which means I love to eat and drink. And I write for an American audience every day. In other words, I am professionally and ethically compelled to join in your traditions. So every year in my Spanish household, Thanksgiving is the perfect excuse to work a little, eat a lot, take a nap, discuss food a little, curse hipsters, eat again, have a few drinks, turn the music up, and hug a pretty girl.
It’s my favorite day if we don’t count all the others where, throughout the year, I find a good reason to do exactly the same thing. Since Trump’s victory, I confess, every day I find a good reason for a party and more reason for Thanksgiving!
This year for the first time I was planning to cook turkey. I bought one. I christened it. And I kept it in the garden because every time it came into the house it got insolent and wouldn’t listen to reason when I told it: “Stop pecking at my underpants.” Or “I need silence to write.” And, “It’s not a good idea to look out the window from the second floor if you’re not sure you know how to fly to the ground.”
The problem is that the garden is too connected to the rest of the forest that I don’t own, and we occasionally get visits from strangers. I couldn’t tell you if it was a wolf or a fox, but Little Kamala (the turkey’s name) died. Now I have to choose between cooking the heap of feathers that I found scattered on the floor or calling a turkey delivery service.
I had already bought ingredients for the stuffing and cornbread and the onions, celery, carrots, thyme, rosemary, and parsley. I will most likely make some toast and just put everything else on top if I can balance it all right. The roast turkey I’m ordering doesn’t come stuffed, but I don’t think it is acceptable to serve the critter on one side, and the stuffing on the other. I’ve got it all figured out. I’m going to blindfold the diners and tell them to eat it all together. I doubt they’ll be able to tell if the stuffing is inside the turkey or around it
Before the turkey, I will prepare some appetizers: my famous canapés alla negroni, which consists of cutting into very small portions the pizza from the night before, and serving it accompanied by a generous glass of Negroni. It will be just as forbidden to have seconds of the pizza as it will be to not have seconds of the Negroni.
The idea is that the diners will get to the turkey so drunk that none of them will dare to ask me about Little Kamala. I don’t want to have to tell the terrible story previously mentioned. This is the first time there has been a crime in my house, at least against a family member, and Little Kamala was already one of us. These things tend to get talked about, spreading around the neighborhood, and sinking your reputation. That’s how Hunter Biden started.
As for the music chosen for the evening, you will love it! During the meal, I will play elevator music, very common for any ceremony, with the exception of pontifical funerals. During the siesta, I have a magnificent selection of children’s lullabies. These are songs that have never put a child to sleep but are incredibly effective with adults.
Then comes the most awaited moment — the pumpkin pie. It is the first time I have made it, but I have the recipe from Grandma Goose herself (it was passed to me, in her will, by Little Kamala, hours before her tragic end). I have done a preliminary survey and none of the diners like pumpkin, so its role will be defensive.
By which, I mean I intend to throw it in the face of my brother-in-law, the one who whenever he has two drinks begins to sing Bolivarian revolutionary hymns. His theme at the last Christmas lunch was the sex change of inclusive pets. He did not know if he was for it or not, but he blurted it out with the intention of provoking an altercation. And this time he will come in excited about Trump’s victory, who he will call a “fascist pig” while chewing with his mouth open, so his odds of receiving a pumpkin pie to the face are good.
In addition to the pumpkin pie, I will also make an apple pie. I’ve been at a friend’s house picking apples from his garden. The guy said to me, “Come over for coffee and I’ll give you apples.” I went for coffee, brought a big tray of expensive pastries, and finally, once there, I asked him where the apples were. The bastard gave me a ladder and pointed to the top of a tree. Do I look like I know how to climb a tree? My revenge will be terrible. I can’t wait for him to come home one day and ask me, “Hey, do you happen to have any eggs?”
Finally, after dessert, I’ll turn up the rock music to politely get rid of the over 60s, change the music to a 1980s jam session to politely get rid of the under 20s, and turn on a smoke machine to politely get rid of my idiot asthmatic cousin (a real ladies’ man). I’ll serve sex on the beach (the cocktail) dressed as a Hawaiian, to politely get rid of all the other guys, and I’ll have an amazing evening with my three neighbors, who are a cross between the Spice Girls and Taylor Swift, but right-wingers with brains.
You can imagine mine will be happy, but I also wish you a happy Thanksgiving.
READ MORE from Itxu Díaz:
Why We All Have a Chair Full of Clothes
Escaping Politics to the Serene Countryside … It’s Too Cold
Ten Priorities for Trump’s New Administration
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