Yes folks, sad but true; there will be no turkey day for yours truly and Good Wife Norma this year. None at all.
But weep not for us, we’re going to be just fine.
As this is written Wednesday afternoon we very much intend to gorge to excess tomorrow at noon, then hit Thanksgiving another lick that evening.
Of course it will all be history the time this is read on Saturday, but why not share this most bizarre and, yes, more than a little unnerving situation ahead of time?
Happily, timing also opens the door to a how-did-it-go, follow-up report next Saturday should I find myself scrambling as desperately for column fodder then as I am today.
The thing I find more than a little unsettling this year is something that, the best failing memory can recall, has never happened in all my prior 70 Thanksgivings aboard the Good Ship Planet Earth.
And what is that something? It’s Thanksgiving utterly devoid of turkey.
Yes, GWN and your limping scribe have embarked upon a daring, possibly life-altering experiment … can Thanksgiving be made into a turkey-free zone and, if so, is such a thing survivable?
The 2019 Thanksgiving menu for the big meal at noon is … (drum roll, maestro, if you please) … a big, thick, garden variety beef chuck roast. The slab of beast will be cooked low and slow to utter succulence whilst nestled among potatoes, carrots and (if I can find some later today) parsnips.
This is where the “weep not for us” part comes in. This exact meal numbers among my most cherished memories of childhood. The whole concoction would be placed just so in the big, blue, enamel roasting pan. Next it went into the oven Sunday mornings, there to achieve culinary perfection by the time we returned from church, changed out of our best duds and raced to the table.
Comes Thanksgiving evening this year we’re in for GWN’s to-die-for homemade chicken noodle soup which, cruelly, she cannot enjoy herself, being gluten intolerant and all. But not to worry. Son-in-law Kevin is riding to the rescue with a batch of his special chili concocted just (well, mostly) for her.
There will be the obligatory pies and dinner rolls and assorted other trimmings, but this year’s twin feasts are sans so much as the scent of the traditional big-chested bird everybody raves about.
But you know what? That’s fine with me. Common sense suggests 70 straight years of the stuff is more than enough for one lifetime anyway.