Last night after work I bought a slice of roasted turkey, a spoonful of stuffing, and a dollop of mashed sweet potatoes. After packing my pre-Thanksgiving dinner neatly into a small brown carton, I licked my lips and headed for home. Once there, I settled onto my faded corduroy couch; turned on MSNBC’s Rachel Maddow, my heroine; and shoveled in some poultry. No sooner did the first bite register with my brain than it rewarded me by playing back a song I had learned in grade school.
A turkey sat on a backyard fence as he sang this sad, sad tune: ‘Thanksgiving Day is coming gobble gobble gobble gobble and I know I’ll be eaten s-o-o-oon. Gobble gobble gobble gobble gobble gobble gobble I don’t like Thanksgiving Day-a-a-ay. Gobble gobble gobble gobble gobble gobble gobble I would like to run away.’
This kind of thing happens to me a lot. I stopped eating veal when a calf visitation appeared before me and the poor thing squeak-mooed when I put the first forkful to my mouth. Same went for a hamburger and the appearance of a mommy cow with long eyelashes.
Throughout my life, I have had protracted periods of vegetarianism because I really cannot stand to eat meat, but eventually my hair falls out, I become faint, my skin gets spotty, and I backslide. I think I’ll be piling a lot of broccoli and salad on my plate come Thursday. I wonder, though, what the piece of turkey I hide underneath the greens will have to say to me.