Fall will always be my favorite time of year. Early October’s last gasp of warmth leads to chilly, crisp air that sends the mosquitos packing and me to the hills and marshes chasing birds and deer. But my “other” favorite time of fall will always be Thanksgiving.
Though Northern Michigan has a bleak look of mid-winter, and all but the hardiest oak leaves have fallen, technically it’s still autumn for another month. But regardless of how gloomy late-November can be, Thanksgiving dinner ranks among the liveliest and most enjoyable times of the year. Tables are adorned with small pumpkins, gourds, dried leaves, and turkey napkins. Rich smells linger from first light as bleary-eyed parents and grandparents tend to enormous birds, peel 14 metric tons of potatoes, and make sure the gravy is juuuuust right.
This beloved holiday is one of rich aromas and family time on a day off during the work week, a chance to count blessings before returning to our heathen ways. And without the pressure of gift-giving often associated with Christmas, we focus on food and fellowship, and specifically, food. So much planning and excitement go into the best dinner of the year, even though we eat it only once (something the Smith house remedies a few more times depending on how many turkeys we shoot during the spring season).
There are a million ways to describe what this glorious feast means to each of us. The word itself — THANKSGIVING — actually presents a fun way to articulate the good, the bad, and the ugly of this most savory of dinners, a fun game if you take it letter by letter. Here are my thoughts, some of which you may agree with and others that will probably make you cringe. Fill in your own as you read along.
T is not just for turkey, it’s for that turkey. Why wouldn’t we turn a day of thanks into a family rivalry? If Aunt Edna cooked a 25-pound bird last year, you can be damn sure mine’s gonna be 25-and-a-half pounds this year, even if I have to include a couple of decoy anchors in the body cavity along with the apples and onions.
H is for heaping, the only necessary unit of measurement of the day that also perfectly segues to the next letter.
A is for acid reflux. What spells Thanksgiving more than jamming enough food down your piehole to require a stomach-acid grenade to break it down. Sort of like the body’s version of drano.
N is for nocturnal, which is what you’re going to be for the next three nights. If there were a P in Thanksgiving, it would stand for Prilosec, not pumpkin pie.
K is for kranberry sauce, which is so vitally important that it warrants my editor getting a small seizure by letting me misspell it. Besides gravy, it’s the other side dish/condiment required by Michigan law, even if it’s from a can that plops out as an entire cylinder and is cut with a knife. It’s rumored certain fathers-in-law prefer this imposter over something more culinarily delectable while other family members look away in horror.
S is stuffing, straight out of the box and follow the directions. Don’t screw with perfection.
G is for gravy, and if you didn’t make it, forgot it, or try to get away with broth to be more healthy, you should be dragged by your toenails to a remote mountainside in Siberia because you’re a communist, and that’s where you belong.
I is for the inability to stop eating. 364 days of a healthy diet and exercise shot to hell in 23 minutes.
V is for visiting relatives… who never bring anything. Every family has that one mooch cousin or uncle who not only shows up empty-handed, but insists on telling you the turkey is too dry.
I is for the inevitable box-o-wine never purchased throughout the rest of the year but is today pleasantly welcomed. There’s something about a cold pinot grigio poured from a plastic spigot that I can’t seem to pass up. Knowing it’s cheap and will mix the contents in my gut to make the best food-coma nap of the year doesn’t hurt.
N is for naan, specifically anyone who shows up with it as their bread “dish to pass.” Thanksgiving is about white — or, in a pinch, wheat — rolls, those round beauties that sop up the last gravy-riddled shreds of awesomeness on your plate. Show up to my house with naan and you’ll get slapped with it and sent packing (after I’ve taken your box-o-wine).
G is for God, because if you don’t realize that every scrap of food on your plate, and everyone who prepared it, are gifts from Him, then you have no business taking one bite.
Happy Thanksgiving, pass the gravy.