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Wednesday, November 23, 2011

Turkey Day

(I’m posting this a day early so those who subscribe to my blog via email will get this in their inbox tomorrow morning instead of Friday, after the festivities are over.)

“Thanksgiving dinners take eighteen hours to prepare. They are consumed in twelve minutes. Half-times take twelve minutes. This is not coincidence. “--Erma Bombeck

Erma Bombeck is one of my writing heroes. I grew up reading her column and her books long before I understood the irony in her portrayal of suburban home life. She not only influenced my writing (I regularly wrote letters to friends and family turning mishaps with the kids into Bombeck-esque essays), she also helped shaped my sense of humor and ability to find something funny about even awful things like the entire family being stricken with the stomach flu at the same time.

Take a break from NaNoWriMo today and write something fun. (Notice I didn’t say ‘take a break from writing’ —I still encourage you to find time to write for at least five minutes.) Write from the point of view of the turkey as my sister and I did years ago. Write about cooking your Thanksgiving dinner as if Chef Ramsey were calling the play by play. Write about your holiday as if your family were guests on Jerry Springer or a new reality show. Write about it from your dog’s point of view.

If you’re willing, I’d love for you to post your Thanksgiving essay here. I will do the same.

Happy Holidays!

1 comment:

Barb said...

A Thanksgiving Tale
November 27, 1985

Let me tell you a story. (Why don’t you sit down and stay awhile...)

Once upon a time there was a girl named Barb. She lived in a modest two story white stucco house with 2 bedrooms and 1-1/2 bathrooms.

One day, when Thanksgiving came, she purchased a butterball named Tom. Now Tom was a big butterball weighing close to 25 pounds. He was a bit neurotic as Thanksgiving approached, so Barb fixed him his own little pan near the stove where he could keep his feet warm, because being a bit perverted, she stripped him of all of his clothes and even extracted his giblets.

Being the mild-mannered, unpretentious bird he was, he was content to lie there in his pan near the stove, spread-eagled (spread-turkeyed?) nude. He was lying there, in his pan, thinking about the predicament he was in when Barb danced into the kitchen. She asked him to lie still and proceeded to fill him with Mrs. Cubbison’s cornbread stuffing - complete with celery and fresh onions.

A few hours later, through the glass of the oven door, Tom was horrified to observe a big iron pot on the stove in which his giblets were being boiled unmercifully. A tear even escaped from Tom as he watched the pot boil over onto the stove.

Tom began to think that the cards which fate had dealt him were most unfair. He thought rescue had finally come when Barb opened the oven door, but he was even more upset to be doused with gravy.

As Tom was lying there stewing in his own juices, Barb tenderly took him out of the oven and layed his cooked body on a soft bed of parsley. An inner voice told him the end was near. Run Tom, Run! But alas, his legs were on the other plate.

(written by Barb Aeschliman and Julie Cole, November 1985)