Let’s talk turkey

As Thanksgiving approaches, we would do well to reflect on we are grateful for, instead of on how much we would like to murder our relatives for already playing Christmas music when it’s not even December, for goodness’ sake.
I have to make allowances. After all, maybe they’re grateful for Christmas music. Maybe this is their way of expressing it.
Maybe they’re getting back at me for playing “Monster Mash” every day since July 4.
But I am trying. To be appreciative, I mean. I’d write a list of everything I was grateful for if I didn’t have to make dinner first.
It must have been easier in the prehistoric times. The gents traipsed in with a leg of mammoth, the ladies had chestnuts roasting in an open fire — hold on, let me fling a slipper at the boombox in the living room.
Right. The gents caught some mammoth, the ladies cooked it, and everyone was grateful for the good sense of the other.
In modern times, it’s different. The gents in my household don’t spear so much as a Butterball turkey. And the less said about their help with the salads, the better.
I lug the turkey from the supermarket to the car by myself. Then from the car onto the kitchen countertop by myself.
Then I brine it and spice it and am about to put it into the oven when my brother enters the kitchen.
“Hey!” I say, brightening. “Could you handle this? I still have to vacuum and make the pie and the cranberry sauce and…”
“Oh, I was just going to ask if you put butter under the skin,” he replies.
It’s a good thing my hands are wrapped around a baking pan instead of a carving knife. I nod with the cool self-command of Hannibal Lecter.
My brother gives me a thumbs-up and leaves. From the living room, I hear Bing Crosby start warbling again.

So I open the oven with my foot, use a basting spoon to bash the Brussels sprouts already in there to the side, and heft the turkey in. By myself.
But I’m still grateful for my family. If they weren’t around, nobody would eat my science experiments—I mean, my cooking.
The spirit of Thanksgiving, though, insists I be grateful for more than that. I say the spirit of Thanksgiving is a big pain in the neck.
Only it’s right. Food isn’t all that Thanksgiving is about.
My brother might not help in the kitchen, but he tells jokes until I can hardly breathe for laughing.
And it wouldn’t be Thanksgiving without the decorations that my sister has put around the house.
Or without my dog curling up on the doormat in order to be the first to greet each arriving guest.
Or without the songs my parents have chosen to play, even if they’re all for the wrong holiday.
So I make dinner. The pie comes out wet, as it always does, and the Brussels sprouts are overcooked.
And every year, my family says it’s the best dinner they’ve had.
What good people I have to be grateful for.

Copyright 2024 Alexandra Paskhaver, distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.