December 11, 2003

I always leave the stamp of origin to the last peeling fruit. Brings a deep sadness to hold an orange or apple from New Zealand, knowing a farmer down in Florida or up in Washington State needed to make the sale. Feel guilty betraying the future by supporting foreigners. Only consolation in all the imports is that Hong Kong men's pajamas drape better than Taiwan pj's.

Last month the hotshot financial paper, The Wall Street Journal warned consumers to expect higher prices due to the cost of freight on ships coming into our harbors. The article omitted the price consumers will pay the day the ships dock in the harbors offering the highest price for the load. The definition of "open seas" will take on deeper meaning if Japan or Singapore has a better market than, say, the West Coast of the U.S. (I am going to play this dirge to the hilt. Last chance before Christmas.)

Over Thanksgiving, I warned my grandchildren to help their mothers and dads hold onto my estate after my last call. Six or seven percent of the ranch can be tilled. Damp spots around the edges of the concrete tank are especially fertile. On the years the annual rainfall shoots on up to 10 inches, part of the arable ground grows white squash and black lentils dry enough at maturity to store in a cellar without any more protection than a paper sack. Squash and lentils mortared into a paste will sustain life to a peak that would reduce a power bar to the same scale as a lollipop.

However, an audience was hard to find and hard to hold once located. Deer hunting kept the boys in the pasture. The girls sat outside in the late fall warmth watching birds land on the yard fence and yellow butterflies make the final stand before cold weather. "Need any help" guests passed through the kitchen wary of pans falling from steel cabinets. An exhaust fan roared over my head as I fired, parboiled, scalded, burned, and boiled on four burners backed by an oven door opening and closing on heat more attuned to melting iron in a foundry than roasting a 20-pound turkey.

Somewhere and sometime in this wild melee, a granddaughter and daughter-in-law began to peel potatoes. The granddaughter broke the spell: "Granddad, what's the agenda?"

Granddad (me): "Granddaughter, a famine looms over your future is the cursed agenda. One percent of our countrymen raises food. Watch the squirrels and woodpeckers storing hard-shell pecans. Live not in the images of Wal-Mart, but copy the thrift of the lowly pack rat who replenishes and relines her nest with the waste of the world."

Pots scrape against the grill guards. A stove lid rolls out and under Mamaw's cabinet. The oven rack in an overloaded state jams and tilts the turkey pan enough to send brown grease dripping down between the oven door hinges.

Granddaughter: "Granddad, I mean today. What's the plan for this Thanksgiving Day?"

Granddad: "The plan is for 20 of us to eat 20 pounds of turkey, 40 scoops of dressing, 60 strings of green beans, one pint of cranberry sauce, five pans of oatmeal rolls… and my gosh-a-might, I've stepped in turkey grease."

Hunters crowd into the kitchen, bringing the pungency of early-rising young males too obsessed by antlers and backstrap to use Palmolive products. "Saw one 1200 yards away that'd make a Boone and Crockett spread look like a grade school pocket ruler. Nearly had my sights on him."

"Out of my way," the cook roars (me again). "Scat, vayate! Get the hell out of my kitchen."

Potato peelers switch to peeling onions. Granddaughter: "Granddad, tell me a Thanksgiving tradition." (Open table shot, side pocket on that one.)

Granddad: "Hon, be forewarned, for anon we have known if you take a nap after the Thanksgiving feast, you will want to take a nap every afternoon until Christmas."

Daughter-in-law sighs; granddaughter begins to peel onions at a furious pace. Timer rings for no cause. Double boiler goes dry, stockpot boils over. Acrid burned grease smoke from the oven vent sets off the smoke detector in the back bedroom. Hunter bearing deer liver and heart to wash in the sink yields to vegetable peeler's feet blocking path. Guest arrives, asking how soon the oven will be free to start cooking her rolls. Smoke detector stops, telephone rings.

By Saturday afternoon, every guest left, even the black bird dog. Alone at the kitchen table, I tried to eat a cold spare rib on a crumbly piece of day-old cornbread. Nap shadows began to cloud my vision. Chin weight caused a deep dip to my chest. So be forewarned: if you nap on a feast day, you will want to nap from then on to Christmas.

December 11, 2003