It wouldn’t be Christmas without a Turkey. No, not the country; the bird whose instinctive and erratic actions seem better thought out than those of a certain president we could name. (Do turkeys tweet? Does anyone but a turkey tweet?)
Since I haven’t had my Christmas turkey dinner yet, I’m not quite ready to declare the season officially over and strip my tree of its gay apparel.
I drove through whiteout conditions Christmas afternoon, belly rumbling, salivating at the imagined scent of stuffing. But as the squalls failed to subside I realized my options were to stuff myself or to stand a reasonable chance of returning home that evening. So with uncharacteristic caution I drove away, agonizing minutes before dinner was to begin. All I got was a mouth-watering sniff.
And safe home it was, the only casualty a few white knuckles.
But could there anything more pathetic than a man, alone, shivering over a bowl of Mr. Noodles to a sound track of Mel Torme and Barbra Streisand and the Muppets? And later trying desperately to warm chestnuts over an open fire?
Still, I suspect there’s a fowl with my name on it, probably marked down to the price of its timorous cousins, in a grocer’s bin. And I’m tempted to cook one as if there are still presents to unwrap and nogs to be egged.
Perhaps I’ll serve it, like despair, with a side dish of Mr. Noodles.
Happy Christmas all, or happy whatever you celebrate. If you’re Ukrainian, please put this message in the refridgerator and take it out again January 7.