It's almost time for that annual holiday celebrating nature's bounty by sacrificing approximately 46 million turkeys, amounting to 17% of their population, and then eating them. In fact, the cooking and eating of these dead birds is the central activity of the day. (Okay, and basting.) For the average citizen it is the only activity, unless you take your kids to the Macy's Day parade in New York City or are a wealthy WASP and play touch football with your progeny on the south lawn of your estate, weather permitting.
Lacking an estate or the funds to get to New York, or kids for that matter, still you will eat. A lot. So much that afterward you will feel headachey, tired and nauseous and go rooting around in the bathroom cupboards for some Pepto-Bismol, or at the very least a half-eaten roll of Tums from last year's feast. Welcome to Thanksgiving, where the consumption of food per person rivals the hot dog eating contest at Nathan's Famous in Brooklyn.
Yesterday, in preparation for my own attempt to feel like part of something bigger, I entered our small, all-organic neighborhood market that is usually as quiet as a church service and found it alarmingly abuzz with activity. Not over-the-top crazy like Whole Foods, but almost. The stuffing fixings were sold out, ditto the canned pumpkin for pies, and the clerks behind the meat counter were frazzled as they juggled last-minute orders for the happiest and purest of the dead birds, each of whom probably ate better than any of us. As expected there was a traffic jam around the yams, with frantic villagers stocking up for that paradoxical favorite -- a healthy vegetable with sugar added and candy melted on top. Naturally the marshmallows were on display nearby. I toyed with grabbing a bag but I just couldn't do it, despite having been asked to make that gross mess by my beloved only child. (Oh well, now he'll have another reason to hate me; that should compensate.)
Begun in this country around 1607 as a day to give thanks for one's blessings while preparing feasts to celebrate the harvest, Thanksgiving certainly meant well at the start. But leave it to the purveyors of processed foods and the admen, ad-women and ad-non-gender-conformists on Madison Avenue to turn it into a food fiasco, the very opposite of clean eating. It's tough for me, a heart attack survivor (which I know pales in comparison to being a sexual harassment survivor like Dr. Christine Blasey Ford, the poor woman), to stay true to myself, not to mention the two stents in my right coronary artery, while somehow making my dinner guests feel officially grateful and adequately nauseous. Wish me luck.
Lacking an estate or the funds to get to New York, or kids for that matter, still you will eat. A lot. So much that afterward you will feel headachey, tired and nauseous and go rooting around in the bathroom cupboards for some Pepto-Bismol, or at the very least a half-eaten roll of Tums from last year's feast. Welcome to Thanksgiving, where the consumption of food per person rivals the hot dog eating contest at Nathan's Famous in Brooklyn.
Begun in this country around 1607 as a day to give thanks for one's blessings while preparing feasts to celebrate the harvest, Thanksgiving certainly meant well at the start. But leave it to the purveyors of processed foods and the admen, ad-women and ad-non-gender-conformists on Madison Avenue to turn it into a food fiasco, the very opposite of clean eating. It's tough for me, a heart attack survivor (which I know pales in comparison to being a sexual harassment survivor like Dr. Christine Blasey Ford, the poor woman), to stay true to myself, not to mention the two stents in my right coronary artery, while somehow making my dinner guests feel officially grateful and adequately nauseous. Wish me luck.
No comments:
Post a Comment