Thanksgiving at Jeff’s

What did the Monday columnist do for Thanksgiving? Allow me to take you on a little journey into…Thanksgiving at my house.

Picture yourself fast asleep in your bed at home. (Assuming your parents didn’t rent it out when you left.) Your first good night’s sleep in months.

Now picture your father gently nudging you out of bed around fiveish. “Time for the traditional Thanksgiving hunt, boy. Get a move on!” So you drag yourself out into the woods trailing the world’s stupidest hunting dog. Freezing your butt off, hungover, tired, and now you get to chase a beagle through briar patches.

The beagle, by some freak chance, bounces out a rabbit. In the excitement of the hunt you empty your gun only to watch the rabbit scamper over a hill. And the dog run like hell the other way. Aarrgghh! Anyway, you finally get home with nothing but a bunch of empty shotshells—which is good because no one remembers how to cook rabbit anyway.

Mom is working so you and dad get to do the cooking. As dad snores in front of the fire, your eyes glaze over trying to decifer the Stove Top instructions. With the stuffing safely boiling on the stove you run to the grocery store for some canned gravy—hey, you know your limits!

Upon arrival back at the ranch, you find that pa is awake and quite irate. It seems that you don’t let stuffing boil uncovered for 45 minutes and you’ve ruined a pan. Such is life. Writing off the stuffing as cashed, you move on to basting the turkey. This is simple because mom left step by step instructions with illustrations. Things are looking up.

Since stuffing is out of the question you decide to try mashed potatoes. After severing several major arteries in the attempt to peel potatoes you give up in disgust and go back to the store to buy instant. Realizing this could also be a problem, you get clear instructions from the lady in the deli: Boil water, pour on potato powder, stir. No sweat.

Being aware of the importance of organization, once at home you decide to get all the canned stuff out so you don’t forget anything. Let’s see, canned yams next to the gravy cans, couple cans of green beans. Oh yea, gotta get some bacon because no one eats green beans unless they’re fried in bacon grease. It’s a way of life.

Once again seeking organization, you look over mom’s instructions to see if anything else is needed at the store. What’s this? “Put cream in cold bowl over bowl of ice. Beat until it looks like whipped cream. (should only take a couple minutes)” Sure mom. Buy whipped cream. Buy cranberries? Nobody likes cranberries. Get a bottle of Cranapple and some vodka. And wine. That should do it. Off to shop one last time.

Home again! Got the Cranapple and vodka, a couple gallons of hearty burgundy, and a jar of bacon bits. Throw some Crisco in with the bits and they won’t know the difference. And hey, the little knob implanted in the turkey has popped out. Pull that bird out and let ‘er cool a bit.

Let’s see now, get the water boiling for the spuds. Mix up a pitcher of vodka and Cranapple—for those that don’t like wine with turkey. Unscrew one of the wine gallons—so it can breath. A true connoisseur.

Waters almost boiling. Get the gravy, beans and yams going. Boy, is mom gonna be proud. And dad hates stuffing anyway. Better start slicing up the bird.

Let’s see, where’s that Ray Rayner turkey carving guide. Oh, just wing it. How many ways can there be to cut a turkey? No big deal. Meat is meat. They can throw ketchup on it if it isn’t good.

Water’s boiling. Pour on powder. Mix rapidly. Hey it worked! Potatoes are supposed to be a little runny anyway. Everything is ready and here comes mom. Perfect timing!

Dinner was great. Everyones palate was well conditioned from the cranberry Kool-aid and wine so no one complained a whole lot. Until I brought out the pumkin pie mom bought yesterday. Forgot the damn whipped cream. “More wine anyone?”