It's a Turkey of a Day for the Savage Chef

It's been a long day, I'm in one of those moods, and the big day is almost upon us. Time for a Thanksgiving rant. So, let me put on my apron, roll up my sleeves, step up on my soapbox (actually, the crate my ice cream compressor came in), and just rant away. Don't worry, you can stop and make some nachos and pour a beer or whatever; I'll still be here when you get back.

Say, those look tasty. Mind if I have one?

Forthwith, I would like to state quite firmly: Sausage, oysters, raisins, peanuts, candy corn, prunes, apricots, rice, ham, eggs, old sweat sox, eggplant, caviar, mushrooms and leftover fruitcake, have no place in a proper Thanksgiving turkey stuffing. A proper Thanksgiving turkey stuffing consists of homemade cornbread, seasoned with salt and freshly ground black pepper and some sage and thyme; celery, onion, some green apple chunks if you like--I do-- and perhaps a bit of chopped up neck meat and giblets, which may or may not include any of the liver.

Add sufficient melted butter and turkey neck broth to moisten it just enough to enable it to be packed inside the big bird, remembering that you don't need much of either, as the turkey's wonderful, fragrant juices will baste the stuffing into a truly ambrosial dish. If you do not make your own stuffing--and I cannot imagine why you would not, as it is so simple that you could have a handy small child do it--then please do not ever, ever resort to that dusty, dry boxed faux stuffing mix the grocery stores sell. It isn't possible to say enough Hail Marys or Our Fathers to do penance for that mortal sin. Either wangle an invitation to someone else's house, or dine out at a reputable establishment; one that employs real cooks, not microwave jockeys.

A properly executed stuffing is often the best part of the whole Thanksgiving Day meal. Like the little boy said, "No more turkey for me, thank you. I'll just have some more of that bread he ate!"

Beyond my deeply held religious belief in the sanctity of stuffing, my pet peeves regarding Thanksgiving Day foods are many. In general, I despise the ready-made, so-called convenience foods that all too many culinarily deluded people rely upon these days. In particular, I detest such gustatory abominations as:

Green beans (from a can!)-- canned-cream-of-crap-soup--fake-onions-also-from-a-can casserole. Ladies, I implore you. Do not believe everything that you read in Good Housekeeping magazine. Sometimes they lie to you. Really.

Mashed potatoes made of alleged potato flakes. Hollywood uses this stuff when they want to simulate a snowstorm. Better you should eat real snow. It doesn't clog your bodily plumbing, and you can use it to make killer daiquiris.

Canned (do you begin to see a theme developing?) yams with miniature marshmallows on top. What sick mind invented this shit? My cat left a more attractive mess on my bed quilt, that time she ate three lizards in a row.

Gravy from a can. Dear Lord, WHY? What on earth do these people do with all the luscious turkey drippings? My brothers' little boys don't mind it, though. I remember being that age. All the little boys seemed to really like to eat paste.

Those icky, pre-cut carrot pucks. They DO NOT taste like tender baby carrots. They taste like orange Lincoln Logs. You shouldn't eat wood. I don't care what that old guy who ate pine trees said.

Nasty bottled ranch dressing to go with the carrot pucks. Grumpy calls it "raunch" dressing. I concur.

Canned cranberry sauce, whether berry style or jellied. Especially grievous to this eater is the practice of pushing the jelly straight from the can onto the serving plate. There it sits, wobbling slightly, in all its cylindrical glory. This presentation does have one virtue: it gives me something to giggle at, as I steel myself to the thought of partaking of the rest of the dreadful meal.

"Dinner rolls" from the grocery bread department. Why not just throw in the towel entirely, and pass around that baggie of Wonder Bread? You know you want to. And don't even try to tell me that's butter. I know whipped margarine when I see it.

Well, so much for the main meal. Anyone up for dessert? I thought you'd never ask.

Those Cool Whip and Jello creations. Why are they so often a leprous green? There's a reason why they are called "molds" you know, and it's not just because of the pan they're made in.

Finally, DO NOT EVEN THINK of serving me a frozen pumpkin pie, or an instant pudding one in a faux crust that you grabbed from the grocer's freezer case. More of that darn Cool Whip, you say? That's it. I'm outta here. If anyone wants me, I'll be outside in the driveway, letting the air out of your tires and writing nasty things on your windshield in gravy. From a can.

Next year, come over to my house. We'd love to have you. I'll do ALL the cooking. Please. Don't make me beg. I have canned gravy, and I'm not afraid to use it.