All of it? I don’t know, kid. I think a good thanksgiving drink is a whiskey mixed with whiskey, over whiskey, topped with a splash of whiskey. But that’s just me. Doesn’t matter. I’m at a sushi bar anyway.
We stopped doing thanksgiving a long time ago. You may be asking, ‘what kind of Americans are you?!’ to which I will reply, go to hell, thank you.
It’s just a giant agonizing kick in the ass, and by the time I’m finished with the dishes, it’s three in the morning, and I’ve thrown my back out. There are 17 of us at any holiday gathering—if we don’t invite friends. Add a couple of guests, and we’re looking at a swarm of starving relatives who will eat approximately 20 percent of the massive feast I slaved over for three days, then drink all my expensive American single malt and scream about politics for four hours. Two of them are gluten-free, one is corn-free, and one is vegan, and I just can’t fucking do it anymore. Why in the hell do we do this?
Also, a lot of my family is native American, and I feel like I should maybe reconsider celebrating the historic snatch and grab of their native lands. Which I could shout from the rooftops as I had their back in their endless refutation of cultural appropriation and Thanksgiving in general, except they gleefully celebrate Thanksgiving with all the trimmings and the extra delicious charm of good southern cooking and just screw it all. We’re getting sushi.
It’s perfect. I am with family whom I love (like 83% of them). I don’t have to cook or clean. I can get drunk on saki and oyster shots, then eat my weight in maki rolls and sashimi. What’s not to love?
Am I turning my back on a grand American tradition dating back to the pilgrims? Am I abdicating my sworn allegiance to American gastronomy by avoiding T-Day? Hang on a minute; the waitress is pouring my after-dinner bourbon . . . what were you saying?
