“Happy Turkey Day” Is So Ironic Because None Of The Turkeys Are Happy

This year will mark the first time that I am not in New York (or any of its surrounding states) for Thanksgiving. I thought about flying home for the feast, but at the end of the day you’re traveling 1,500 miles for poultry. And since the advent of the telephone and e-mail, there’s no need to sit around a dinner table to show your family you love them when it’s just as easy to send a Thanksgiving e-card.

But being in Miami feels weird. Truthfully, all holidays (except for Labor Day) feel weird in Miami. Maybe it’s the weather, or the region’s distinct lack of historical significance, but there’s just something about the idea of Christopher Columbus, Native Americans, and turkeys all hanging out on a beach that doesn’t seem right. Also not right is my historical interpretation of the origins of Thanksgiving, but that’s not the point.

Regardless, Brooke and I (and Brooke’s brother who flew down to avoid family with us) will be cooking our own Thanksgiving dinner, the prospect of which is both empowering and terrifying. This is the Super Bowl of dinners. I’ve overcooked plenty of hamburgers while shot gunning beers after a long day’s work, but messing up Thanksgiving dinner is on par with poking your father’s eye out with a tree branch on Christmas Eve. (Trust me, I’ve done it.) What’s more, it’s an insult to food – a commodity that has been so good to me over the years that for me to turn around now and slap it in its dry, overcooked face would be inexcusable.

So everyone, wish me luck. In return when it comes time for me to be thankful about something, I will think of how appreciative I am that my blog’s awesomeness has tricked a bunch of complete strangers into wishing me luck over roasting a bird.

Happy stuffing! (If you know what I mean.)

(I didn’t mean that sexually.)

(Scratch that, take it sexually – turkey sex for all!)

(Not sex with turkeys, though. Gosh, this got weird fast.)