When I was a very small child, maybe three or four years old, I saw new piglets for the first time. They were all cute, soft, and warm. I had to grab up each and every one to hold and pet. I picked a favorite, and I wanted to name him.
I’m okay with that.
At our house, I’ve never had newly-born piglets to show my kids, but they’ve been educated about these matters.
Consequently, around age five, Sassy started to name every bird we eat. I presume she only names the birds because, well, they’re bought nearly whole, and they look like what they are, as opposed to sausage or steak.
Every bird that goes into my oven has been named.
Moo copied her, so sometimes Moo names the birds, too.
The other night, while we ate twin hens named Liv and Maddie, Sassy brought up that she gets to name the Thanksgiving turkey this year, because Moo did it last year. I told her we’re having Thanksgiving at Mamaw’s, so she’ll need to tell Mamaw it’s her turn to name the turkey.
Sassy called Mamaw, who did not understand a lick of what she was talking about, so The Mister had to take the phone and explain.
“I don’t know, Mama…Because it helps them understand where their food comes from…It puts value on the animal…No, I guess it doesn’t make sense…You don’t need to understand it…It’s a tradition, Mama.”
And that’s how we found out that for Thanksgiving, we’re not having a bird. MIL is just baking two turkey breasts.
Having not had Thanksgiving dinner with the whole family since 2006, I was very much looking forward to a lovely holiday meal at Mamaw’s giant table. I asked for this.
As it turns out, Drew and the boys can’t come BECAUSE FUCKING PEOPLE FUCKING SHOP ON FUCKING THANKSGIVING DAY, we’re having turkey breasts instead of a bird, and Hello! it’s Mamaw’s house, so there will be no wine!
Until I get home. Oh, until I get home.
No, my Thanksgiving is not ruined. I’ve far too much to be thankful for. But oh the w(h)ine.