Talking Turkey

Well that was that. As a California Republican I feel like the voice of reason screaming into an echo chamber. The only response I hear is my own jumbled half phrases flung back at me by a small monkey in the back. I'm imprisoned by the donkey horde and this elephant doesn't remember where the secret exit is hidden. It's up to me to silently suffer.

So this year wasn't different. One turkey was stuffed, the other turkey was elected king, but I'm not here to talk politics. I'm here to talk turkey. See, now that the election is over, I can get on with the important things in life. I can look towards Thanksgiving.

Last year I stayed home and grilled a Cornish game hen. It wasn't bad, but I'm not sure I want to do it this year. I mean it was fine and all, my stuffing was moist, my cranberries were canned. It was fairly normal, but a hen ain't a turkey.

Well I suppose technically, that's only true half of the time (let's go with half, I don't have the farming reports giving hen to tom ratios.), but stick with me, you know what I mean. Tiny hen, big turkey: different.

Kinda like men and women.

Women have different visions of Thanksgiving than guys do. Women want to stand in the kitchen and cook; guys want to sit on the couch and watch the game.

Kids, this is where you leave the room, cuz it's gonna get ugly. Just go to your tiny table in the corner. When the women storm the room with forks and knives like that, somebody's getting carved. Today's somebody will be Rob.

Hi!

And see? I've just proven my point. Some women found my stereotype offensive. It's like saying all turkeys are the same, when we all know the only tasty way to go is a Butterball. Guys on the other hand didn't take offense at all, but we will nod and grunt at your disdain, after the game. If that's what keeps you from standing between us and the game.

See, we take our stereotypes in stride, unless you're comparing our macho cars to our driven libidos, then we're ready to rumble. And see? That's where you always out smart us. You get us all riled up, so that we go out and grab gardening tools in protest, and then you lock us outside until the lawn is perfectly manicured. We've seen that trick a million times, on the Flintstones, and yet it never ceases to out smart us.

Somehow you don't mind that stereotype do you?

Huh…

Last year I was a stereotype. I was a single guy forging his way through a divorce. I McGyvered a meal from Cornish hen, duct tape, and a ball point pen spring. And it was actually pretty good.

This year, I'm not the stereotype. I'm past the divorce and I'm just a guy foraging for the holiday. So what am I going to do?

Right now it looks like I'm staying at home, cooking a Cornish hen. Maybe I'll grab a syringe and stuff the little chickie. It may be the most fun she's had since her head was cut off. It would be creative. I think I can fit a tablespoon of stuffing up there.

What? I can't do a whole turkey. The smallest Turkey is 10 pounds, and that's more than I can eat. Last year my Grandmother said, "you can buy a leg" but somehow one piece of meat seemed a little depressing. I like dark and light meat. A leg is, well just a leg.

So this year, I'm spending the holiday alone again. And yeah, I'm eating my stereotypical hen, but I'm not sad, or fighting the "I don't want to look pathetic" stereotype. I'm just a guy and his meal.

Just like every other stereotype.