Boy was that turkey good.
In order to stave off the discomfort of the Palin public humiliation and slaughter of Alaskan birds, I had to fool myself so I would be able to eat the dinner my sister so generously prepared. It had to have been a lot of work. Approaching the front door I smelled the trademark family holiday smell and it was good. It took me about seven seconds to get to the carving tray where I hand-hovered over the little hunks looking for just the right catch then pecked a long piece of white meat like a bird plucks fish out of a lake.
When meat is sliced, it doesn’t look like an animal anymore. It became in my mind, sort of like cake that signified a party. The rest of the “cake” still took on the look of a turkey, yes but cake makers can be very clever these days (yeah, that’s you Ace of Cakes). I convinced myself that it was a plate accessory, rather than the main character of the dinner story.
I’m probably not the only one in America who swore not to eat meat again after the sideshow of last week, and certainly not the only one to have gone back on the promise to myself and to other living things that they would no longer be my next guilty pleasure. Now, after the way I went after that meal even my dogs are looking at me with suspicion.
I’m weak I’m weak, but right after I eat the take home pie Grandma Jo sent me out with, I’ll gird up my loins (don’t worry pigs) and renew my resolve to cut out the meat. On a grander level I’ll try yet again to prove to myself that there is at least the small possibility that I might be able to exhibit a modicum of willpower and self-regulation.
This year I blame my sister as I wipe cold turkey sandwich off my face, she and my pumpkin and apple pie baking mother who use culinary art as a form of mind control.
It worked.
