Toothsome Turkey Thursday

It was a dark and stormy day and night, wrong in every aspect. There was school. There were classes. There was no feast. There was no turkey seducing me into bed with L tryptophan. Last year one of our forefather’s most pivotal holidays was spent on the floor huddled under an electrically heated table rocking back and forth imagining the absent delectable delights that are essential to this special Thursday. The table was grievously bare. There was no succulent turkey, no mashed potatoes pounded to perfection, no warm rolls smothered in butter, no cranberry sauce sitting in its perfect can-shape. The day was all wrong.

Fast-forward a good three hundred and forty something days. A few friends and I enter an elevator somewhere in the midst of Imabari City, Ehime. The elevator transports us to another world – thousands of miles away somewhere in Massachusetts. It takes us back to 1621 when the first “Thanksgiving” type event supposedly occurred. Squanto passes us with a cynical look in the hallway as we alight and asks us if we brought any beer. Aromas of turkey, stuffing, potatoes, pies, corn, and cranberries waft towards us, hooking our noses and making us scramble madly towards the dining room, ravenous beasts that we are. Huge vats of stuffing and mashed potatoes wait to be devoured. Four imported turkeys have already accepted their noble fate and wait to provide bliss and general euphoria for a couple dozen misplaced expats who have been suffering a diet of raw fish, salty noodles and pickled vegetables. A fair number of Japanese people are present as well, awaiting a first-time taste of this delectable creation.

Despite it being a couple of weeks too early for the Americans and several weeks too late for the Canadians, the day still morphs into a proper Thanksgiving Day. It is an opportunity to celebrate the glorious, ugly, juicy animal known as the turkey that most people barely ever think about until the month of November rolls around, and turkey heads follow suit. Now famed for being utterly dim birds, by Ben Franklin’s decree, turkeys once symbolized America’s national pride wing in wing with the bald eagle. The wig-happy founding fathers seemingly were partial towards birds that shared their ineptness for growing hair on their heads. However, after one exceptionally ponderous turkey was caught on a rainy day staring up bewildered at the sky, people began to mock them- calling them insipid and stupid along with unsightly; What was that insidious-looking carbuncle hanging out under their beaks?!

It’s true. They don’t appear as clever as say an owl or a tortoise; there is no wisdom in their eyes. It is not uncommon to see a turkey staring blankly into space for a good thirty seconds or so. The more kindly folk might wonder if they have microscopic Clark Kent super-sight that allows them to see something we can’t. The rest of us would just proceed to call him a scrumptious birdbrain, affirm Darwin’s tenants of Natural Selection and reach for the nearest axe, basting brush and potholder. Research would later show that these poor birds actually suffer from spasms of the neck that causes them to stare at random objects for unnaturally long periods of time. But nature has a way of balancing out such genetic flaws. Despite having crap eyesight, turkeys do, however, have excellent hearing with which they can listen intently as we sharpen our axes and preheat the oven.

Whilst most turkeys end up seeing the inside of a big silver pot in the fall, there are several turkeys that lead lavish lifestyles. VIP lounges, spa treatments, beautiful plumed hens at their beck and call. These turkeys are the Pardoned Few. Hand selected, these turkeys are nurtured at a young age, raised in perfectly air-conditioned barns and will one day come face to face with the president. As a requirement, the toms must be at least 25 pounds (11kg) and therefore are served sumptuous meals daily. After being spared the hatchet, they will then spend their remaining days sunbathing on a ranch, or relaxing at Disneyland, until they die a tragic, untimely death as a result of leading plumaged lives since they first hatched.

They’re certainly not attractive, and perhaps aren’t really all that bright, yet their aroma manages to lure Americans back to the dinner table successfully every year irregardless of location. Paul Theroux puts it delightfully when he writes, “To an American the whole purpose of living, the one constant confirmation of continued existence, is to cram as much sensual pleasure as possible into one’s mouth more or less continually. Gratification, instant and lavish, is a birthright.” When asked by Japanese the origins of Thanksgiving I can simply restate this incontestable fact, and then shush them as I proceed to dive headfirst into my plate full of joy, happy to be a true American.

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Published:
11.21.07 / 3pm
Category:
what i call life, culture, unschoolish