A Wing, a Leg and a Prayer

As a child, my sister used to have this Thanksgiving tradition. Right around Halloween, she’d start muttering about the specter of “gravy over everything.� She was one of those people who can’t stand to have anything on their plate touch anything else, and the inevitable collision of cranberry sauce and creamed corn, of yams and dressing and meat and gravy--well, it was as repulsive to her as dog vomit on a Superfund site.

Nobody likes a picky eater, people used to tell her. But people missed the point. The point wasn’t to be liked. The point was to work your agenda into the Thanksgiving platform. Her agenda involved buffet service and gravy-on-the-side. Year after year, she delivered for her small but vocal constituency.

There’s no diplomacy like Thanksgiving diplomacy. Next to this coming Thursday, open primaries will be a cinch. The maneuverings that are occurring even now in households across the nation could keep political scientists in doctoral theses for eternity.

Whose house will you eat at? How will you persuade Aunt Bertha that, while her creme-de-menthe -and- canned-cranberry Jell-O salad is, of course, mouthwatering, perhaps she’d like to try something, um, different this year? Who’ll get dibs on making the turkey (the secretly easy job) and who’ll get stuck with the annoyingly labor-intensive side casseroles?

And when will you eat? Before or after the kids spill sparkling grape juice on grandma’s “heirloom� tablecloth? And what about the stupid football game, which always commences simultaneously with the dinner bell? And will you let your sister-in-law get away with store-bought pie yet again? And is it some kind of law that we have to always have bad wine?

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People say: Look at the Indians and the Pilgrims. They worked it out.

Excuse me? Hel-lo?

Is there anyone who does not suspect that, at some point, Mrs. Squanto turned to her husband there in the tepee kitchen and announced: “Look, I’ve had it. I am not going to spend one more Thanksgiving fighting with your sister over whether we should set a place for your uncle, just in case he doesn’t decide to spend the day this year at the track. Plus, I for one am trying to diet. And those Pilgrim kids are creepy, I’m sorry. Those hats! I mean, what’s that about? I’m going to Acapulco. Do what you want.�

The fact is, Thanksgiving is the day that reminds us that strange bedfellows don’t just happen in politics. Every year, we reunite with all those people we ran from like heck when we were 20. Every year we remember why we ran.

Every year, we explore all the things with which love can miraculously coexist: Annoyance. Substance abuse. Incarceration. Long-term debt.

Not to mention cheap wine. Or long drives in traffic. Or gravy over everything.

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This year, our kids have announced they all hate turkey. We’ve tried telling them that, hey, turkey doesn’t even have a taste, it might as well be Miracle Whip or halibut, but no deal.

Other talking points in our Thanksgiving negotiations over what and where and with whom we should eat have included: Tired grandma, Dad on a diet, Mom’s family not up for travel, all aunts and uncles on Dad’s side taking big vacations this year.

And this is just one family. Think of all the permutations taking place just in Southern California:

“What?! She wants us to drive clear the heck down to San Clemente?�

“Do I have to eat the pearl onions, Mom?�

“Let’s just try to get through one meal without an argument. . . .�

“I don’t care how well your brother’s therapy is progressing, I don’t want him near the carving knife.�

The whole business is enough to set off a stampede to Acapulco. But then there wouldn’t be a quorum, and we’d all be stuck.

For our part, we’ve put this year’s Thanksgiving up for a vote. The leading candidate in early returns is a restaurant.

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Shawn Hubler’s e-mail address is [email protected]