Thanksgiving is a day to recognize the what really makes our country great - the food pornologists. Put away your shirts with buttons, adorn yourself in your dressiest sweat pants, let that muffin top loose and prepare your reserve stash of napkins because the gravy is about to runneth over, motherfuckers!
Onto your pants.
[Insert timely Monica Lewinsky joke]
You holiday food whore, you.
I love Thanksgiving not only because it is the gateway drug to Christmas - my favoritest time of the year - but because it is an exercise in logistics. Fuck portion control and the 'no thanks, I've had enough" attitude of quitters and fascist assholes, there is a science to properly forcing Gastronomic Olympic-sized amounts of food into your body in a way that will allow you to do it over and over again.
For a day every November, I'm like a binge eating scientist for the ole US of A. A Six Sigma black belt of food-to-stomach engineering. It takes a master's degree in physics to figure out exactly how much food I can shove in my face hole to maximize repeated deliciousity. Fortunately I have all of those qualifications because this is America gawddamit! A magic land of opportunity where I can be a whore for casseroles AND a super smart scientist of food things because of feminism and all. It's called progress.
And according to manifest destiny I WILL look yonder to the end of that table and annihilate every casserole in my path towards total and utter gluttonous success. I will shed my horribly restrictive shackles (pants) and crawl along the table righteously and gloriously over the hillbilly mountains of squash casserole, past the ashes of Sherman's destruction and the shallow remnants of gluey mashed potatoes while I hum the Battle Hymn of the Republic and salute thee, oh gravy.
Past the carcasses of our fallen brethren and a deep-fried fowl and onward through the plundered fields of green bean casserole I will stake my claim just like Tom Cruise in Far and Away - that documentary about American pioneer Scientologists.
On a covered wagon through the western desserts of crumbly cornbread dressing washed down with cranberry sauce, I will dry hump that empty casserole dish hard enough enough to give it smallpox because I'm also a medical doctor for the day and that's exactly how that works according to the time I spent in 8th grade playing Oregon Trail.
Finally, to the far reaches of our golden coast of the dining table where Paula Deen awaits me with ooey gooey pumpkin cakes and a stick of butter she will annoint our naked bodies with while we writhe ceremoniously to the beat of Native American drums and gourds filled with dried beans played by Taylor Swift. A bald eagle will drop bits of pie into our upturned mouths. Mouths hungry for tradition and sticky sweet goodness - desires born of a world built upon cans of sweetened condensed milk and cheese logs.
We will not stop with the ceremonious writhing until all of the offerings have been consumed to honor Marthia, the gawdess of hearth and insulin production and Amazonitus, the gawd of Black Friday deals. Our frenzied ritual will end in the greatest orgasmisplosion of fireworks that our founding fathers Abraham Lincoln and the baby jeezus have ever seen.
With Reddi Wip on top.
What I'm saying is, I am rather partial to Thanksgiving fare and can't wait to finally cook some holiday meals in my new kitchen.
Here is one thing I will cook in it for National Ford Pornologist Day:
I almost creamed my sweat pants when I saw this recipe for cream-braised Brussels sprouts via the always delicious Orangette.
It's better if the cream comes from the teat of Marthia but sometimes it's hard to find.
Happy Thanksgiving, y'all. Hug a food pornologist this week. For America.
But not too tight - they might explode and then that would be a waste of science.
Today, everyone from the Let's Blog Off gang - that rag tag group of bloggers that convene every two weeks - is talking about Thanksgiving. Go here to be a voyeur on everyone else's thoughts about National Food Pornologist Day.