Moveable Feast

With arbitrary inevitability, my regular Thursday writing slot clashes with Thanksgiving every year. It may well be that I handle it each time with a repeatable tradition of a specific type of posting that readers look forward to as a sign of good-natured community building around this humble space. But if I do handle it that way, I don't remember and I'm too loopy on carbs and milk fat to bother to check.

I guess I should take a second to say what I'm thankful for this year. First of all, I'm thankful for the times when I check my ingredient list prior to attempting to cook so I'd know if, for example, the brown sugar I have on hand is all old and dried out, so that when I try to use it anyway because it's SO LATE ALREADY and hey, who knows, it will probably be fine, the pumpkin pie I've attempted doesn't come out all un-sweet and, you know, gourd-flavored because my brown sugar has become a collection of grit and gravel.

Secondly, I'm thankful that as a straight white dude, I'll personally probably be OK during the Trumpista years. I'd be more thankful to live more precariously, which is to say on an even footing with the rest of the people in my country so we'd have a sense that we were all in this bullshit together, but apparently it's the dawn of a new age of political re-ascendency for beleaguered white-straight-dude-ness, which I can only imagine is going to end at some point with me smashing a broom handle over the head of a Nazi youth during some sort of street fight in Orange County someplace. And even then I'll probably just get a stern talking to from the cops and released on my own recognizance. I AM ALL SET FOR PRIVILEGE, THANK YOU. PLEASE STOP TRYING TO GIVE ME MORE.

Also Florence Henderson died, so fuck everything anyway, at least for an hour or two, right? Here's a picture of a smoking monkey.



Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!