24 November 2005

An homage to that most iconic of holiday fowl; the tofurkey.

“Let’s try something new.” She said. This is usually my queue to become alarmed, like a tsunami warning on a beach or teeth and clumps of hair falling out; but I was watching football.

”Fooball!” I grunted, waving a paw in the vague direction of the TV. Surely, I am the very reincarnation of the immortal bard. Eh, gentlemen?

After all, "fooball!"

I believed I’d made myself abundantly clear. I drank some beer and settled deeper into the couch.


Bathroom … later.

“Honey, remember what the Doctor said about your cholesterol?” Well, no, not right then, I didn’t.

“I got a tofurkey!” She said, beaming. “You see, it’s this flavoured tofu, pressed into the form of a turkey, and it can be roasted.”

“I…” My beetle brow knotted in ferocious concentration. This seemed wrong. I was prepared to cook the turkey that I had stalked and cornered in the grocer’s freezer just yesterday. I have the tools to either smoke it, or deep fry it. My cunning plan was to smoke it a bit, then fry it. I had not decided on the type of dressing yet, save that it would involve some form of pig. The ghost of Julia Child moaned in the wind and wound its way around the house like a begging cat between its servants legs.

Tofurkey?

“No.” I managed to croak.

“It’ll be deep fried.” She wheedled. My left eyebrows twitched upward.

“In lard!” Well, alright then. My eyes glazed over, and I returned to the game.

Well, of course she didn’t fry it; it was roasted to a particularly unappealing streaky brown color. I tried it, then surreptitiously slipped it to the dog.

Shadow, the Dog-That-Eats-Anything-Even-Tootsie-Rolls-From-The-Cat-Box, turned up her nose and slunk away. I toed the gelatinous lump under the radiator.

“Mmmmm” I said appreciatingly. “Delicious!” I refilled her wine glass.

“Don’t!” She exclaimed. “It’ll go right to my head, and I’ll fall asleep!”

“But honey, wine helps reduce bad cholesterol!” I smiled, we drank, and I refilled her glass. Twenty minutes later, she was snoring on the sofa, and I was headed up to wheezing Fred’s. I pounded on the door.

“You’ve got to help me, mate.” I said. “I’m famished!”

“No problem.” He said. “I’ve got a large traditional thanksgiving meal here.” He gave me a beer and motioned me towards the football game. I happily settled into his couch.

“Do ya want a slice of pepperoni, or mushroom and sausage?” He shouted from the kitchen.

Ahhh, fooball!


And that's the way I likes it.