Flaming Turkey and the Honey Bombs

Today: Thanksgiving, 2009. I just put the turkey in the oven and feel inspired to offer up a moment of silence. My thoughts are wandering...

Thanksgiving day, 2008.

It was a beautiful day, the sun producing glaring reflections on the crisp snow. As usual, my awareness of daylight came gradually as Blix sat staring at my face, occasionally whining his pleas for me to get my ass out of bed and take him outside to pee. Only a quick and disoriented walk around the block with the dog stands between me and a large cup of dark coffee. Or a pot.

Honey, I had decided, would be a healthier alternative to processed sugar, and a quick spin in the microwave would warm my honey bear very nicely. I thought.

Well, warm it nicely it did. Too much so, as a matter of fact. Granted, setting the microwave to cook on high for ten minutes with the intent of stopping it after ten seconds is not a good idea when one has an obnoxious four month old puppy who is hell bent on making himself the center of attention no matter what. The sizzled-whirling sound reminded me of those loud ground flower firework things that dance nervously around the arsonist. In a flash I threw open the microwave door and, to my amazement, saw the honey bear, blown up like a puffer fish, spinning furiously. Seconds later the small yellow cap went flying, never to be found again. Molten honey splattered across three walls of my recently cleaned dining room, leaving out only the space of a torso and two arms. That honey, flung angrily from the honey bear puffer fish, landed painfully on my skin.

Needless to say, I was awake after that.

Strangely, I've forgotten what Blix did to demand such a diversion from my coffee preparation. Karma came knocking on his doggy door, however, when a couple hours later he ran directly into the glass patio door. Evidently, I cleaned it extraordinarily well after the honey bomb explosion; spotless enough that he couldn't see what separated him from the outside world he loved so much. Indeed, I laughed out loud. My roommate? He laughed so hard I think he wet himself. The greatest guffaw, however, was yet to come.

I've been known to bake a delicious turkey: Thanksgiving, 2008, despite the molten honey and yelping dog, was going to present another beautiful bird. To prevent unsavory dryness I used a roasting bag. Butter, fresh herbs and lots of garlic were smeared all over the skin. Instructions followed to the letter. Two hours later: smoke! Smoke, billowing out of my oven. And, a flaming turkey!

What the instructions failed to warn me is that if the bag comes in contact with the element, it will ignite, and consequently ignite the butter or oil or skin of one's Thanksgiving centerpiece.

I was shocked, bewildered, didn't know what to do, but, in the end, we ate it anyway. Never have I laughed more on Thanksgiving. Seems very appropriate, actually, given that I feel grateful for laughter; Extremely grateful because I believe it heals me. So, here it is, Thanksgiving, 2009, and the turkey is baking, flame-free, in the oven, in a roasting bag. This year I carefully tucked in the excess bag-baggage before baking, and, it's looking beautiful.

Now, I doubt Thanksgiving would feel right without some weirdness, without laughter. That in mind...I think this meal will be eaten on the hard-wood floor, picnic style. But, here, in these few moments of silence, I thank God, the Great Spirit, the Creator, the Buddha nature that binds us, for laughter: brief little moments of healing nirvana.

And, that's all I'm going to say about that.