Peace of Pie

Thanksgiving.

Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve always looked at Thanksgiving as some sort of weird cult ritual: we take this headless bird, and put in it the center of a lavishly decorated table, hold hands around it and give mini-speeches about how ridiculously blessed we are. Morbid.

Prior to the table ceremony, there will have been hours of preparation; basting the beast every hour on the hour with its own golden juices to lock in the tender sacrifice. An early morning awake, a late night to bed after cleaning up messes from relatives you don’t really like anyway and never feel the need to see on a regular basis. Someone’s drunk, someone’s asleep, and inevitably someone’s crying in the bathroom. Football’s on, and no one is really thankful for anything other than the day being over.

I guess I just never understood the routine.

Often times, I’ve thought about filling the turkey cavity with dollar bills and some sort of mild explosive to liven up a bland group. If we’re celebrating here folks, shouldn’t there be fireworks? What if the turkey played a jazz number to the timing of the knife cuts (Sinatra anyone?)? What if I stood up suddenly and screamed “TADA!” as I successfully yanked the tablecloth out from under the crystal dishes, polished silverware and multitude of side dishes? It’s not just our society in real-time that is struggling monetarily, emotionally and otherwise, it’s been every generation; when the hell are we finally going to perk up and actually be thankful for the good things?


I have my dad's sense of humor when it comes to the holidays. I have a no nonsense approach to enjoying the festivities, and do so with vigor in his honor. I come to party.

I will always be the first one to laugh, and I am most likely performing a stand-up routine in the kitchen while I’m making dinner. Something will burn and nothing will be done at the same time, but I’ll have chuckled through the whole process because charcoal covered yam memories are better than none at all.

I also have adopted my mother’s fervor for being the star cook on Turkey Day. Bless her heart but anyone that know my family can agree that I have become a monumentally better chef than her. For example, on year in her great and inventive way, my mother ground up the plastic spoon she was using to push cranberries down into a blender with. I’m not sure she would have disclosed this other than the fact that someone started choking on plastic spoon bits. Between this episode and many others, I’ve learned that you can drop a turkey and wash it off, but you damn well don’t tell anyone that it hit the floor. It’s not the food that is as important as the heart you stock behind it.

There are basic rules as well, and I’ll share them because I hope one day that everyone I adore will gather around a single table in one fabulous hot mess of a blessed day. Don’t come if I don’t like you, plain and simple. Chances are if I don’t like you, you probably don’t like me. Can’t cook? That’s why God invented whiskey. Pick up a bottle or two on your way over. Also, don’t dress up; I’m more than likely covered in ten different spices and flour and would probably fry up crispy if dropped in a vat of hot oil. Don’t show up in a three-piece suit, because if we’re being honest, we all know that pants are optional. Smile. A lot. And often. Turkey tastes terrible? Laugh it off, that’s why I made extra strong gravy. Eat as much and as often as you like. No one diets on Thanksgiving, and if you are in fact dieting, I will slip melted butter into your fat-free salad dressing. I’m just saying. But seriously. Eat some bread. Take a nap if you feel like it. Hell, fall asleep at the table. I’ll wake you when it’s time for pie. Hug everyone, bring Tupperware for leftovers, make a mess; I don’t care just enjoy yourself.

I’m thankful this year that I can honestly look back with no regrets. I am overwhelmed to be surrounded by endless love. I’m thankful for the leaps I’ve taken, because no matter how hard the fall, I always land on solid ground. I’m grateful for my quirks and my faults, because without them I wouldn’t be me. I’m grateful for friends who speak my language and support and invest in me without judgment. I am rendered speechless by the small changes that have impacted my entire outlook on the future. I am astonished and amazed that I have found something (and someone) worth fighting for.

This year if I can make someone laugh and feel equally as fortunate as I am, well, it’ll make me just about as happy as a hot butter-rubbed turkey.