Its Still About Giving Thanks, Not Knowing When to Take a Drink After Chewing

 

So, how did you score this Thanksgiving? Be honest.

Did you really know what to do with your napkin?
Did you eat soup using a spoon without noise, or did you eat soup with a fork?
Did you use a fork to eat turkey, or a club like our Pilgrims?
Did you eat with lips closed so securely you nearly chewed the inside of your mouth?
Did you talk at the appropriate moment, or with your mouth full of potatoes?
Did you make your holiday meal happy happy happy at all times?
Did you eat neatly without producing a ring of spots on the tablecloth beneath your plate?
Did you refrain from spitting unchewable meat into your napkin?
Did you make sure your kids were dressed in suits?
Did you make sure your kids were dressed in suits and short shorts?
Did your kids have to place napkins over their exposed thighs?
Did your dinner have wine glasses filled with water, not wine, the entire night?
Did you know when to take a drink after chewing, even though it was just water?
Did parents in attendance look like grandparents the entire evening?
Was your Thanksgiving Day good or did you wish for something more? Something in color? Without annoying voice-over narration?

If you scored 100%, congratulations. Did you know man has already landed on the moon? Johnny Carson replaced Jack Parr? Computers have replaced typewriters?

Then, and now – however it’s observed – Thanksgiving is still about giving thanks.

I hope it was a happy Thanksgiving for you. And thanks for checking in on mine.

One Wine (and two-thirds), Fun and Done

I pick my vices carefully. I have to. I have Lyme disease.

These days, to help combat illnesses borne from Lyme, I’ve become a health nut. I’ve eliminated all the sugary, fatty, unhealthy foods – the things that make them fun – to co-habitate with the disease. As a result, nearly all vices have been eliminated from my life, too. Fortunately, one I’ve always enjoyed I can still partake in – wine. So long as I limit it, alcohol can be consumed.

After years of various experiments with my wine threshold, I’ve learned one and a two-thirds glasses a day is my limit. For a while, I thought it was one drink, then one and three-quarters, then one and a quarter. For a while I tried two plus drinks and crashed (which made me wonder: what do I need over two freaking drinks a day for anyway?)

Recently, I ordered one glass of Sauvignon Blanc – my favorite variety – at a restaurant. Of course, my waitress didn’t know I had a one and two-thirds drink maximum. After nursing my cherished wine pour for almost an hour, the waitress continued to ask if I wanted another drink. I was so tempted to say, “If only you knew me, what I can’t eat, what I shouldn’t do and the sacrifices I make to maintain my health. If only you knew how this drink you served me, this teeny, tiny, little ol’ four ounce drink, is SO PRECIOUS. I mean, look at that guy at the end of the bar. What? He’s on his third martini now? He’s so lucky.” (Or is he?)

My memoir, Maybe Boomer, covers my path of pain and confusion living with Lyme. I’ve lived with it for forty years. Among many things, Maybe Boomer is a story of survival to be the best I can while living with a never-ending daily nemesis. You can read more about it in the introduction to Chapter 13, “Health,” from Maybe Boomer.

Next week, I’m going to visit California wine country for my very first time. I wonder how many wine-tasting sips it takes to make one and two-thirds drinks?

Remember This Guy? Chef Boy-Ar-Dee

As a kid, I assumed this handsome Italian chef guy made all the Chef Boy-Ar-Dee brand spaghetti personally. I visualized him stirring a huge vat of it in a factory somewhere around Gary, Indiana, the factory capital of the US. But even as a four-year-old, I knew Chef Boy-Ar-Dee wasn’t great spaghetti.

Regardless, I learned one very important thing from Chef B-A-D: the taste difference between “canned” food and fresh. Unfortunately, Mom – head chef in our house – preferred canned spaghetti (and peas, corn, beans, Spam, potted meats, etc.) Tin-encased foods represented one less meal she had to prepare from scratch over a hot stove. (Mom took this to the hilt in retaliation for too many other housewife responsibilities. Read more about it in the introduction to Chapter Three, “Revenge,” from my memoir, Maybe Boomer.)

Actually, the Chef Bor-Ar-Dee people are still around, but have a new guy modeling as Chef. I’ve gone to a health food diet in my adult years and kind of miss the old Chef Boy-Ar-Dee, even his Beefaroni and Spaghetti & Meatballs. Do you? Or do you still (secretly) crank out the can opener for an occasional comfort food hit?