'Cause I'm a Turkey

Turkey gourd ornaments
approx. 2" by Andrea Jansen

Scene:  the Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour; one of their repeat-guest comedians dressed up like ol’ Tom, strumming and swiveling ala Elvis.  Someone please, help me with a name.

“I know that this Thanksgiving… (strum, strum)

Is gonna be my laaast

‘Cause they’re gonna chop my head off

And stick stuffing hm-mmm-mmm-mmm
'Cause I'm a turkey...oh, yeah, a turkey..."

I’m afraid without music I can’t do it justice, but I can still visualize the brilliant routine.  I laughed ‘til I cried, and we didn't need to hear the graphic detail.  That's called using your imagination.

They’ve started playing the Christmas songs already; no waiting for Black Friday, so I think we should revive such classics and get Tony Bennett to cut an album with friends.  Halloween’s hype is just a precursor to Christmas; next thing you know, they’ll have to get rid of a holiday like they did with the planets, and which one do you think will wind up like Pluto?

One of MY family's traditions:
napkin rings in eye sockets

Happy Thanksgiving, all!  I enjoy writing in the quiet of the wee hours.  I often get up before many of you go to bed, a fact which, for some reason, irks some people.  I should be sleeping like everyone else, but do they?  Third-shift folk, insomniacs, the military.  I’m in good company.  My retort is usually to ask whether my 4am, hit the floor running, personality isn’t better served than watching hours of mindless garbage on Any-Tube, pigging, until falling asleep on the couch?

I enjoy pigging as much as the next person, but if you look around, REAL Starving Artists and struggling entrepreneurs aren’t usually overweight.  I’m spending today with BC, since we have not received any invitations elsewhere.  Which is fine; I’m rationalizing that I’m in a new town and since I’m a hermit, how can I expect to meet people with real tables?  BC herself has not been asked to return to a couple places in the past (she sweet, but sounds like Cujo), so I’ll just blame her.

My all-time favorite Thanksgiving meal has to have been in 2000, La Parguera, Puerto Rico.   After three years, Stan (not his real name, in case you’re new) and I knew most people in town, at least to speak the pleasantries, because one of us was a daily fixture at our kite shop at El Muelle, the heart of the community.

As the latest Gringos to hit town and stay, we were a curiosity.  Stan is, by nature, the friendliest guy you’d want to hang out with; his yang compensated for my yin.  Nobody messed with me, because besides Stan being more than capable of defending himself and his, this Gringa was feared in her own right.  Often I was on my own while Stan visited family Stateside or pulled his shift at shows.  (Czar, a huge collie, was a lover, not a fighter.)  I was in a macho society but I tend to lead, and was more than vocal, always.

Sea Czar, my Salty Dog

But I digress.  The tiny galley on the boat was not conducive to a feast, and I can’t ad-lib with whisks like I can with a paintbrush.  Fortunately, we usually had invitations to share other’s hard labors.  We’d open the kite shop for a few hours Thanksgiving morning because despite the holiday, people were packing up, heading out for a day on the water.  (Remember, this was the tropics.)  We accepted three invitations that year (casual affairs), but the difference was that my hormones had kicked in: the onset of menopause, I later learned.

I've always enjoyed a hearty appetite and tend to inhale my food; I still hope to learn to savor each bite.  Since the story calls for it, I’ll reveal something about myself I’ve guarded more closely than my age. 

My weight.  I’ve never been svelte, and since my 30’s I’ve averaged 129 pounds (I’m 5’3”, if I stretch).  In 2000, I suddenly began dropping weight at an alarming rate.  I was eating more than Stan, but I’d step on Ginger’s scale and see I’d lost another 3 or 4 pounds.  By 112, I spoke to a physician friend and asked his opinion.

 
“I’ll ask you what I ask my patients:  How do you feel?”

“Terrific!”  My energy level had even increased.

 “So don’t worry about it.”

Stan observed, “Most women would be doing back-flips if they could eat like a horse and still lose weight, but you complain.”

Look at me, I’d say; I look like a just got out of a concentration camp, or I suppose the Model look.  I’m not usually concerned about illnesses, but this unexpected weight loss was something I’d not heard of with any frequency, have you?  At least not accompanied by a fatal disease.  Stan said I had a tapeworm; I said if my weight dropped below 100 pounds, I’d have tests run.  I bottomed out at 103 before slowly going back up to 129, darn.  Just couldn't seem to stop it along the way.

At each home, I filled my plate high with turkey, rice and beans, stuffing, pasteles (my favorite Puerto Rican dish, sorta like tamales but wrapped in leaves instead of corn husks), platanos (fried plantains), fried snacks with Thousand Island dressing, cranberry sauce.   My journal with a complete list is packed in Mom’s attic, of course, but I had two helpings at least at each place, and when we got back to the boat I consumed the desserts we brought home.  Luckily Stan wasn't crazy about sweets.

“Have you ever seen me eat so much?”

“I’ve never seen anyone eat so much.”

Boater's pot-luck
Thanksgiving dinner

So I’m in the market the other day, carefully contemplating preparing my first Thanksgiving dinner in ages in a real kitchen, with real stuff.  I chose what I wanted to eat: a chicken to roast, maybe; Brussel sprouts (go figure); Stove Top Stuffing; fixin's for the dreaded Green Bean Casserole and French Vanilla ice cream with Hershey’s  syrup.  I also picked up a package of discounted tamales.  Yeah, a quarter apiece is more like it; I’m not paying a buck each.  I tried to remember how I cooked pasteles, but figured I could always Google instructions.

I have to watch my pennies, so asked for a sub-total along the way.  When the tamales rang up with the regular price I said no, thanks, even though the cashier offered to have someone run and check the price.  The lines were long; it wasn’t that big a deal to me, so I said no once more.

“Can I help?”

Huh?  The cashier and I turned towards the voice; the lady behind me was staring.  For some reason, I thought she'd read my mind about cooking preparations.

“Can I help…with some money…if you’re short.”

Lady of Lourdes
miniature gourd

I had more than enough, but thanked her for her generosity.  She then proceeded to tell a story of a little old lady recently asking her opinion about the nutritional value of cat food.  As they spoke, this woman asked how many cats Granny owned.

None, she sheepishly replied; it was for her.  In this day and age; in our country.  Our Good Samaritan scooped her up, took her for some real grocery shopping, and said she’s now on the lookout for others possibly in a similar situation.

“We’re all in this together,” she concluded.  I almost cried, and told her how glad I was to see that there are still others out there with generous hearts.

Would you invite me to your Thanksgiving table?  I’d have come, and happily done the dishes.  Maybe next year.  So next time you see someone who looks like they could use not only food, but companionship, don’t turn away.  It could be me.

I'm thankful I'm happy in my soul once more, and wish the same for others.  Hope you enjoy your meal.  I'm certain I'll enjoy mine!