I’m sure you’ve heard of “The Twelve Days of Christmas.” Here’s the “The Seven days of Thanksgiving.”
It starts like this: “On the first day of Thanksgiving, there’s food aplenty.” At the end of day, the last of the guests have waved goodbye. We insisted some accept our offerings of take-home foods. It’s like the autumn tradition of disposing of excess zucchini by anonymously leaving it on neighbours’ doorsteps.
We collapse. The effort required to shop, cook, tidy up, set up the extra seating, set out the silverware, glasses and plates have used up any reserve of energy we ever had.
A glance in any direction reveals a daunting accumulation of dishes that will have to be scraped clean, washed, dried and returned to their cupboards until the celebrations of Christmas, Easter and the next Thanksgiving. The roasting pan has a baked-on accumulation of fat.
As she gazed at the excess of leftover turkey, I pre-empted her chiding me for bringing ‘Big Bird’ home by once again stating, “You told me the 12 pound turkey I was going to buy wouldn’t be enough. That’s why I got you a 37 pound one.”
Any thought of a vigorous debate was prevented by the amino acid L-tryptophan in the turkey. Drowsiness took over. Torpor reigned. Our brains had converted the tryptophan into another chemical, serotonin.
“As soon as we find space in the refrigerator for the perishables, we’ll be off to bed. We can deal with this tomorrow.”
The second day of Thanksgiving: supper was, you guessed it, a repeat of yesterday, warmed up in the microwave oven. The monumental task of doing the dishes and putting everything away had left no enthusiasm or energy for cooking something new. (Nor had I any enthusiasm for eating turkey.)
Day three brought something different, sort of: turkey sandwiches, with a side of fried potatoes and a garnish of cranberry sauce.
Day four: happily, there was enough shelf space liberated to bring something different from the grocery store. When I informed the little woman of the good news, she called out, “Chef’s choice today is turkey stew. Waste not, want not!”
On the fifth day of Thanksgiving, my true love served to me (you guessed it) turkey soup. There is no end to the young lady’s culinary talents. Fortunately, she didn’t notice that I was longingly gazing at the local pizzeria’s delivery menu.
On the sixth day of Thanksgiving, I was puzzled when I saw pie, the dessert, being brought to the dinner table before the main course. Apple pie? No. Not blueberry, raisin, cherry, peach, rhubarb either. It was turkey pot pie. “Something different, for a change” she commented. “Dig in.”
Finally, the seventh day of Thanksgiving. Oh no, I saw a pile of turkey bones on the cutting board. “I’ve made a reservation for us at Thum’s, the Thai restaurant on Pitt Street. Before we leave, would you take these scraps out for the crows. They’re shouting at the back door.”
