Cooking Our Own Big Bird

Years ago, almost too many to admit, my husband and I were fired from one of our oldest friendships because we announced we would be voting for George W. Bush in that first election. The axe came down on the phone following the first presidential debate--the one where Al Gore rolled his eyes and sighed a lot--and we never saw that friend again. (At least that was the reason given; I suspected the truer reason was something quite different but that the presidential election was a handy hook.) I considered that a one-time fluke, but then the same thing  happened four years later with a different friend when we again voted for Bush. That time I attributed it to the pickled stupor into which the avowed Democrat had sunk, all of us drinking and arguing in a Chicago hotel room.

Now here we are again, and we have been told we cannot attend a certain Thanksgiving dinner in Salt Lake City unless we promise to vote for Obama. Since I would sooner walk across a desert on hot coals, hang naked in a public square and be pelted with jellybeans, have my head shaved, relinquish my collection of original Beatle albums or give up watching reruns of "Everybody Loves Raymond" for a year than cast my vote for Obama, we will not be in attendance. My husband feels the same way, although his head is already shaved and he hardly has any Beatle albums, having been only six years old when they made their American debut. (He'll dispute this and drag out the White Album, but I have Meet the Beatles.)

So Mitch and I will fend for ourselves this Thanksgiving, which we have done for many years now. Fortunately we are both great cooks.