Thanksgiving 2007 - Simon at the Table - Photo by me - Caption by RRC forum member DB Hunter

When I walked into my dad’s house on Thanksgiving, I was surprised to be welcomed by my sister, live via Skype on my dad’s iMac. A year ago, using his old PC running Windows ME, my dad could barely cut and paste. Nowadays, thanks to Apple, he is Skyping my sister in California, shooting photos, scanning old photos and computering like a pro. To anyone struggling with a Boomer parent and a PC: Get an Apple, download Thunderbird and Firefox, and watch ‘em go.

Two years ago, Dad cooked Thanksgiving dinner–a turkey, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, stuffing, gravy, rolls, and cranberry sauce in a can (which is the best cranberry sauce, by the way.) Cooking all of that stuff is a massive effort and a massiver pain in the ass, especially for just two people (and seven hungry animals). Last year, Dad decided to cut down on the effort and order one of those pre-made dinners from Kroger. Guess what? It was every bit the pain in the ass that making everything from scratch was. You still had to warm up the turkey and the kitchen and get all hot and sweaty and uncomfortable and stressed out. Since we wouldn’t have felt comfortable hanging out together shirtless, we decided we’d skip all of the kitchen madness this year and simply go out to a restaurant.

We settled on The Barnsider. We’ve been to the place several times before. It’s strictly an old -school-leather-booth-Tom-Collins-and-iceberg-lettuce-salad type of place but they serve a good steak. I wouldn’t be surprised if they still served a “Diet Plate” for lunch consisting of a scoop of tuna salad in the middle of a bunch of fruit and lettuce. We debated all week about getting steak or a traditional Thanksgiving meal. We knew the steak was good but were we willing to throw tradition out the window?

My mind was made up when I saw the flyer they’d affixed to the front door. “Traditional Thanksgiving Feast” it said. “Hand carved turkey and all the trimmings!” Sounds good to me, I thought. The hostess asked us if we wanted a table or booth. I nearly spoke up but was too embarrassed. You see, I found something out last winter that is deeply troubling to me: I am such a fatass that there are some booths into which I cannot comfortably fit. To make this discovery even more awesome, I found this out on a date. Fantastic! I sat wedged in a booth across from a lovely woman who had no idea I was being bisected by the table. The food I ate was stopped by the table just below my sternum. I had to get up in order for the food to reach my stomach. When my dad said “A booth.” I started to break out in a cold sweat.

Sure enough, it was a tight squeeze. Dad was the first to notice as he sat down. “Oh, Christ.” he said. “I hope the table moves.” It did and he moved it closer to me. I was already tightly wedged, so I said “Fuck that.” and pushed it back. We both laughed at our plight and managed to find a happy medium. A table would have been better, though.

Dad looked over the menu and asked me what I was getting. “The Thanksgiving feast.” I told him. He said “Yeah, me too. I don’t have the heart to get a steak.” Our waitress took our order and asked me if I wanted mashed potatoes or yams. I said “What? Both!” as if a choice between the two on Thanksgiving is sacrilege. Pickards don’t eat vegetables at Thanksgiving. It’s starch, starch, starch, starch, cranberry sauce in a can and turkey. It has ever been thus. We flirted with the whole green-bean-mushroom-soup business for a year or two, but it wasn’t for us. (By the way, is the term “waitress” sexist?)

Waiting for our feast, we snacked on rolls and talked about things we normally talk about: fellatio among the elderly, Republicans, pets. The usual. Then it was time to get our Feast on!

My dad tells a story about my sister visiting one summer. They were watching a Reds game and the announcer said it was time for the “Gold Star Chili Reds Wrap.” My sister made a sound that defies spelling. It was a combination of a gag and a retch. Let’s say it was “Bleargh!” However you spell it, it is the perfect answer to anyone offering a Goldstar Chili Reds Wrap. “How about a nice, hot Goldstar Chili Reds Wrap?” “Bleargh!” “Uh–OK. Hot dog?” “Please.”

The best way to describe our Feast was “Bleargh.” I say this without hyperbole: I’ve had better frozen dinners. The turkey was clearly machine-sliced turkey loaf. The stuffing was a glob of matter hidden beneath the sheaves of turkey. The gravy had an odd chemical taste to it as though it had been imported from China–”Poul-Tree Brand Holiday American Fowl Sauce.” My yams were the best thing on my plate and they were awful. There was even a dollop of the aforementioned green bean casserole. We dutifully soldiered through our meal, content in the knowledge that we were sacrificing along with our brave troops overseas. Just kidding.

When the waitress asked if we’d saved room for dessert, I told her we had and that we weren’t getting anything there. We have pie at home, thanks. We settled up and beat it.

So, we gambled and lost. We knew they served good steak but we went with tradition and got fucked. See what happens when you’re a traditionalist? Let the gays marry and order the steak. That’s the moral of the story.

On the way home, we swung by Faketown to see how it has grown in the year since we last saw it. Surprise! It hasn’t! There was one additional house under construction. The rest of the lots sit empty.

Once home, we settled in for some television, coffee, and pumpkin pie. We watched several episodes of some daffy MSNBC prison show, an episode of a Toughman competition, and then The Godfather Part Two. Here’s a few things I learned in those few hours:

1. Anyone with a tattoo on their face can be safely euthanized without any net loss to society.
2. AMC has as many commercials as the USA Network, thus making the Godfather Part Two five hours long.
3. AMC is very concerned with your sex life. The only paid commercials shown during the Godfather were for some penis largening pill, a vacuum dick pump, and a fingertip bean-polisher for ladies from Trojan. When an ad for something called “MagicJack” came on, I nearly lost it. Turns out it was for some kind of Internet phone thing. I’m not kidding. All of the commercials featured creepy, leering old people. “It really works. Heh heh heh.” Hey, that’s great, PeePaw. So happy for you and MeMaw all jacked up on dick pills, working each other over with your vacuum pump and fingertip vibrator. Happy Thanksgiving!

The next day, Dad and I watched the noon edition of the local news. Between breathless reports about BLACK FRIDAY the third-string anchor reported the latest on the terrorist attacks in–get this–”Moowabi.” “MOOWABI?” I cried. “Rewind that!” I told Dad. Sure enough, the chucklehead pronounced Mumbai “Moowabi.” “Where does he even get that?” my dad asked. “There isn’t even a ‘w’ in the word!”

Bleargh, Dick Pumps, and Moowabi, folks. That’s what Thanksgiving means to me.

Oh, and order the steak.

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