Thanksgiving is beginning to seem like baseball to me: When I was little, I loved both, then I had no interest in either until having kids of my own, and now that the kids aren’t little, I find it all burdensome. I think that my best experiences in life are usually those in which I expect nothing and then something happens. Leaving out the sure fire date. So when I am asked to plan and anticipate A Happy Day, I consider Beckett’s play, “Happy Days.”
I am not being curmudgeonly. I love leftovers: That Friday AM sandwich of turkey skin and mayo? Priceless.
It’s the frivolity and drinking and lounging around, all that gaiety? Exhausting.
A patient of mine is buying a bird and all the fixings from Whole Foods. I think that’s kind of silly. After all, to be honest, it takes me entirely 20 minutes, start to finish, to make the Thanksgiving meal. Stuffing, birds in oven, done. Sides? Roasted vegetables, salad.
It’s The People Factor.
Next year? Chinatown? Nee-how!