You Are What You Eat

Whew, it's over - the 120 mile drive in a storm on a road full of drunks, the overcooked turkey, the heartburn. Don't get me wrong, I have little enough family left and I don't mind seeing them, but there's nothing casual or relaxed about Thanksgiving and if you're like me, needing to avoid salt and too many calories, it's hard to come away from the table feeling good.

But all this for a somewhat insulting myth about "pilgrims," fleeing tolerance in Holland and what good and brave folks they were -  even the indentured servants not much different from slaves. And sure, those kindly Massachusetts residents who welcomed the great unwashed of Europe and their clouds of deadly viruses and bacteria --  and Bibles, of course.  I just don't think we need a celebration of European conquest and exploitation and religious aggression.  Frankly it means nothing to me at all as a celebration of anything worth celebrating.

But that doesn't stop me from making it feel worthwhile by inserting my own meaning.  I made it a point to eat as much gluten as possible and of course I processed the hell out of everything I could find.  There's very little local or seasonal here at this time of year, but I avoided it when I could. Gimme some of that fructose packed, canned Cranberry sauce and the pumpkin bread I baked sure as hell used canned pumpkins from someplace far, far away.

It's a bold statement about holy foods hipsterism, you see -- the attitude of superiority behind righteous Christians wresting a pristine continent with violence, disease and  self righteousness from its owners.  If I could have gotten away with a frozen Turkey TV dinner or maybe some turkey jerky I would have, but there's no stopping the juggernaut of  commerce and no stopping the annual retail cycle.  You have to feel thankful  for any token resistance you can manage.