Well, friends, it's once again that time of year when we as citizens of these Altered States of
Wait, no, that's what we do at Grateful Dead tribute concerts.
What we have this week, on the other hand, is Thanksgiving.
This, of course, is
Immediately after we finish ingesting the traditional wagonload of food, we stagger rubber-legged over to the sofa where we take up a peculiar sessile lifestyle for the duration of the afternoon--or possibly the year, depending on the quality of the sweet potato pie.
Next, of course, comes the obligatory Marathon of Mediocre Football, of which every American male over the age of 11 months is required to partake on penalty of death. This debacle lasts between three and thirteen weeks, depending on the volume of pre- and postgame analysis you are able to survive. It is permissible to leave the television set for brief periods for the purpose of coping with the requirements of biology--this becomes especially critical after the fourth helping of Aunt Jem's Green Bean Surprise--but these trips should be kept to a minimum, and any absences of a duration greater than ten minutes can only be excused by the presence of a turkey sandwich.
This brings me to that greatest of all Thanksgiving traditions: Leftovers. You see, it is forbidden, under federal law, to provide, for a family of four, a Thanksgiving meal weighing less than 3.7 metric tons. This leads to quite a stunning array of excess gustables, naturally. It is customary to have the consumption of leftovers adhere to the following pattern: 1) Second dinner, which is generally a scaled-down version of the primary Thanksgiving meal; 2) Snack course, wherein those are fed who could not be roused from their food-induced stupor in time for Second dinner; 3) Sandwiches. Ah, sandwiches. Herein lies the true art form--some would even say spiritual experience--of Thanksgiving. At no other time during the year does the humble sandwich take on such majesty of form and proportion. A good post-Thanksgiving sandwich can--and indeed should--be so designed and constructed as to nearly replicate the dining experience. That is, they should contain: Everything. That's right. Everything. You cannot--this point cannot be overstated--cannot over-stock a proper holiday sandwich. Simple slices of turkey or ham on bread will get you laughed out of the kitchen this time of year. A good rule of thumb is this: If you can carry your sandwich on a standard paper plate, it is under-constructed. The true masters can even, with a lifetime of practice and dedication, erect sandwiches of such breathtaking scope and scale that the sandwiches themselves will begin, if left to their own devices, to undergo geologic processes. It is not my intent to suggest that you attempt such feats of sandwich making, but it is helpful to know the full range of one's art.
But wait! There's more! Once we're done, we get to clamber up bright and early, drag our bloated, lethargic carcasses down to the local Circus of Capitalism, and fight to the death with other shambling, over-fed hulks over a parking space so distant from the actual entrance that no fewer than three Sherpas will be required to lead the assault on the front door. Once inside, the real havoc begins, as thirty-seven thousand people are suddenly unable to recall how they could possibly have lived their entire lives without a battery-operated tie rack or a titanium-plated salad fork (particularly at such ridiculously low prices!). Plus, we mustn't forget: Christmas is only one month away, and peace on earth and goodwill toward men can only be found at selected Pottery Barn locations.
I love the holidays, don't you?
Seriously, though. I'm mightily curious about the sorts of holiday experiences all you wonderful boys and girls out there have had. Drop me a line, or better yet, post your holiday memories in the comment section here. Who knows? Maybe one of us is holding on to a tradition in the making.
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