Yeah. The most American of holidays.
The holiday wherein my mother of French-Finn extraction swears a blue streak in the latter language, looking for some special serving dish she cannot find. Puttering away in the kitchen, my Polynesian-Asian father prepares his annual turkey stuffing from a commercial recipe. Mom won't want the bloody turkey soup yet again, which will surely follow in the evening after the turkey has been served; the threat of the soup may induce more swearing. I'd rather not have the green peppers in the stuffing, but Dad is always overly reliant upon the recipe and cannot imagine deviating from the recipe, cut from side of a bag of bread cubes nearly a generation ago, curled and brittle with age. I think it's an Asian thing, to cling so tightly to instructions.
But I will be spared, eating instead a brined-and-roasted turkey stuffed with sage-and-chestnut dressing of French origin, and no turkey soup to follow. I will be in the chilly northern midwest preparing the feast for my immediate family and in-laws, slaving away over a hot stove for the next four days, far and away from the heat and humidity of my father's kitchen in Florida, out of the reach of the green-peppered stuffing that always makes me belch for days and out of hearing range of my mother's tongue.
For which I give thanks.
Love ya', folks, but this being a most American holiday, I am glad we are celebrating it from northern and southern ends of the country.
The holiday wherein my mother of French-Finn extraction swears a blue streak in the latter language, looking for some special serving dish she cannot find. Puttering away in the kitchen, my Polynesian-Asian father prepares his annual turkey stuffing from a commercial recipe. Mom won't want the bloody turkey soup yet again, which will surely follow in the evening after the turkey has been served; the threat of the soup may induce more swearing. I'd rather not have the green peppers in the stuffing, but Dad is always overly reliant upon the recipe and cannot imagine deviating from the recipe, cut from side of a bag of bread cubes nearly a generation ago, curled and brittle with age. I think it's an Asian thing, to cling so tightly to instructions.
But I will be spared, eating instead a brined-and-roasted turkey stuffed with sage-and-chestnut dressing of French origin, and no turkey soup to follow. I will be in the chilly northern midwest preparing the feast for my immediate family and in-laws, slaving away over a hot stove for the next four days, far and away from the heat and humidity of my father's kitchen in Florida, out of the reach of the green-peppered stuffing that always makes me belch for days and out of hearing range of my mother's tongue.
For which I give thanks.
Love ya', folks, but this being a most American holiday, I am glad we are celebrating it from northern and southern ends of the country.
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