We cannot break bread with you. You have taken the land which is rightfully ours. Years from now my people will be forced to live in mobile homes on reservations. Your people will wear cardigans, and drink highballs. We will sell our bracelets by the road sides, and you will play golf, and eat hot h’ors d’ourves. My people will have pain and degradation. Your people will have stick shifts. The gods of my tribe have spoken. They said do not trust the pilgrims, especially Sarah Miller. And for all of these reasons I have decided to scalp you and burn your village to the ground.
My annual tradition is this, what you see above, posting Wednesday Addam’s Thanksgiving monologue online. Then I pop into the kitchen to prep the family dinner, while watching the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. Taking on the tradition alone is something I love. What I don’t love is people’s help. I suppose it’s the Virgo moon I’m
dragging around blessed with that makes me unwilling to share Thanksgiving responsibilities. I let people bring booze. Someone always shows up with a store-bought dessert that sends me into a rage spiral (on the inside). I always try to make something from scratch that backfires (candied yams from fresh = crunchy yams and the year that old potatoes made mashed potatoes the consistence of glue) and/or I inevitably forgot to buy something (2015, the year without rolls). My family leaves early, my partner’s family stays the night, and so it goes.
Here’s my tried and true turkey prep that I call …