Ah, itís Thanksgiving time again. For 15 years, I have battled my nemesis, the fiendish turkey-cooking woman who writes this column. Last year, I have to admit, she won. She cooked my giblets, all right. And served them with gravy and a smile.
This year, sheís got another thing coming. There is no way I will ever get into a roaster pan. I will not be stuffed and trussed. I will not serve 10-12 people, and I will not provide enough of my succulent breast meat for leftovers. In other words, she better find herself another entrťe for Thanksgiving Day. This bird is not playing nice, this year.
I can see her through the window, cackling softly as she gathers her Cutcoģ knives. Sheís shredding that stuffing bread, like a warrior, and stirring her cauldron of butter, celery and onions. I hope she can use that stuffing with a nice block of tofu, because Iím ready to rumble.
Sheís opening the refrigerator door. Whatís this, she asks? Whereís the turkey? I can see the perplexed look on her face. Why, I was in there a few hours ago. Where am I now?
Iím in the bushes, of course, getting the lay of the land. She underestimated my tactical skill. But whatís this? What is she doing?
Night vision goggles? A bandolier? That canít be grappling hooks strapped to her bulletproof vest! What is this, the Hunger Games?
Luckily, I watch movies, too. Ninja stars? Check. Nunchakus? Check. Fabulous black satin Ninjitsu uniform? Double check. Oh yeah. Bring it, woman.
Iím waiting here for you, in the front yard, a turkey warrior of mayhem.
Wait! Where did she go? Oh no! Iíve lost her. Do I hear leaves rustling? No, itís just the wind. I might have to change my strategy. Iíve been down that mixed martial arts road with her before. Sheís got mad fighting skills, for an older lady.
I know! Iíll sabotage the kitchen! If I steal the roaster pan and those knives, there wonít be any way for her to cook a Thanksgiving dinner. A simpler strategy is just to disable the whole dinner-making machine. Iíll take the celery, the potatoes and that blasted gravy boat. Even if she catches me, she wonít be able to cook me, if she doesnít have anything to cook me with.
Itís the perfect plan. Iím going to need a really big bag. In her haste to defeat me, she left the door unlocked. A rookie mistake.
Okay, here goes! Pans, knives, onions, poultry seasoning, brussel sprouts, everything! Into the bag. My goodness, thatís heavy. How much stuff does she need, anyway?
Iíve got it all, right down to the little paper frilly things that she loves to put on my drumsticks. Good luck, woman! Try and make Thanksgiving dinner now!
I just have to drag this bag out the door, and blessed freedom! What? You! How long have you been standing there? Darn your stealth boots!
I ricochet across the counter, but sheís on me in a hot second. Quickly, she grabs the kitchen twine from her bandolier, trussing me faster than you can say, ďHappy Thanksgiving.Ē But Iím ready. I grab her trusty potato peeler and slice the twine. Iím free! But wait! Whatís this? Sheís duct-taped the door closed. She thinks ahead, this one. Flying across the kitchen, she grabs the roaster in one smooth motion and grabs my tender turkey bottom with the other. Yikes!
Well-played, old woman. Iíll get you, next year. You will have a tofu Thanksgiving, one day! Mark my words. Iíll be stronger than ever, next year.
Happy Thanksgiving, everyone! Go vegetarian!