ulture

eh

Laura Mooney ~
Arts Editor _

he day has just passed where

Canadians all bow down to the
Great Turkey Gods in celebration of
the tasty treat these strangely horrific
looking birds provide us. Yet another
Thanksgiving has come and gone.
Television ads provided us promises of
happy times with family, all involving
the children laughing and rolling around
in the fallen leaves in the backyard,
while the grandmothers sat on the
deck knitting sweaters from yarn they
spent all year saving just for this very
moment. The men are inside drinking
pre-feast beer while discussing the
latest game their favorite sports
team just won. The women are in the
kitchen making a mound of food large
enough to feed a kingdom the size
of Canada, all while laughing joyfully
at the lack of helo they are receiving
from their “silly husbands.” Everyone is
happy and laughing as though nothing
could possibly top this moment.. No?
Have not seen that ad? While the
idea of Thanksgiving is usually one of
a completely perfect day spent with
family, all fawning over the effortlessly
prepared meal, the real Thanksgiving
experienced by many families paints a
very different picture. It all begins at six
in the morning...

The mother’s alarm goes off, the shrill
beeping drilling in to her skull like an
angry drunk hornet. She hazily opens
her eyes. ‘It's a Sunday,” she ponders,
“why am | waking up so early?” Then
it hits her like a 20 pound turkey in the
face. It is Thanksgiving! Leaping out

of bed, over her husband who is still
dead to the world, she throws on her
bathrobe and whips down the stairs to
the kitchen.

A couple of hours later, the husband
finally wakes and stumbles downstairs.

A Real Thanksgiving Ad

He enters
the kitchen |
to grab his
morning coffee
only to find that
apparently a food
bomb has gone off in
this once pristine cook
space. The counter
tops are covered with
vegetables of all shapes and
colors, some he has never seen
before, all in various stages of being
prepped for their trio to the oven.
Potatoes are immaculately peeled and
sitting in a pot waiting to be boiled and
then mashed into oblivion. Ten loaves
of bread are perched precariously
next fo a bowl larger than a Pilgrim,
being shredded into tiny chunks to be
combined with sausage meat fo create
the most heavenly of side dishes. Then
finally he spots the beast itself; the
pride of this years Thanksgiving. The
30 pound organic, grain-fed, fresh

and never frozen monstrosity the wife
chose, named, and fed by hand two
months in advance to ensure they got
the perfect meal. The wife handles

the giant bird with such expertise and
precision, the husband cannot help but
marvel at her immense cooking abllities.
He thinks to himself with pride, “This is
the woman | married.”

Luckily for the wife, her husband has
turned and left the room before he
had a chance to see the horror that
every Thanksgiving cook fears will
happen on this holy day. While hastily
transferring the turkey into the roaster,
the wife slips ever so slightly and
almost in slow motion, the bird tumbles
to the floor. Juices fly everywhere,
stuffing hits the sides of the counter
like blood splatters on a battlefield.

The fallen comrade slides to a rest at
the wife's feet, her eyes opening wide
and her mouth stuck in a silent “oh” of
horror. The Turkey Gods are crying out
angrily at this blasphemous moment.
Atter a minor heart attack and self-
reassurance that the ten-second

rule still applies, even to food of this
magnitude, the wife scrambles around,
attempting to pick up the impossibly
slippery animal. “Why did | have to use
so much butter and oil on this cursed
thing!” the wife chastises herself. Once
the wrestling match has ended and
the wife has a good strong hold on
her opponent, she places the turkey

in the roaster, and then into the open,
scorching hot oven. She wipes the
sweat off from her brow, says a silent
prayer, and closes the oven door.

Around noon, the family begins to
arrive. The father rounds up his own
children, making sure they have dug
out the sweaters grandma knit lovingly
for them last Christmas, and are
wearing them as though they were
their most treasured piece of clothing.
The doorbell rings as grandmothers,
grandfathers, aunts, uncles, and cousins
from both sides of the family anxiously
await the smorgasbord of promised

leitesculinaria.com/

=, a . ae
food aan
and fun
family times. The ~

husband throws open

the door wearing a smile as large as
a cornucopia, and stares around at his
family, most of whom he has not even
talked to since last year. “Uncle Al, how
have you been?’ “Oh Mom, your new
car is fantastic!” “Oh Jane look at the
kids! They're bigger than ever!” All
around, the family smiles, comments on
how long it has been, and how much
they have been looking forward to this
joyous day.

Within minutes the kids have run off

to their room, dragging their visiting
cousins, to brag about their latest
video games and the record amount
of “noobs” they have killed in cold
virtual blood. The grandmothers and
aunts wander aimlessly around the
house, making comments here and
there about design choices and the
lack of family photos hanging on

the walls. Eventually they make their
way to the kitchen where the wife is
disheveled and frantic looking, with
chunks of potatoes hanging from her
as yet unwashed hair. After hugs and
air kisses are exchanged the women
begrudgingly ask the wife if she needs
any help, fearing the answer. The wife