I pulled this out of the depths of my email - it seems to have been making the rounds a couple years ago. I've searched, but can't seem to come up with the name of the original author of this (if you do, let me know - I'd like to give credit!)
Martha Stewart will not be dining with us this Thanksgiving.
I'm telling you in advance, so don't act surprised.
Since Ms. Stewart won't be coming, I've made a few small changes:
Our sidewalk will not be lined with homemade paper bag luminaries.
After a trial run, it was decided that no matter how cleverly done,
rows of flaming lunch sacks do not have the desired welcoming effect.
Once inside, our guests will note that the entry hall is not decorated
with the swags of Indian corn and fall foliage I had planned to make.
Instead, I've gotten the kids involved in the decorating by having them
track in colorful autumn leaves from the front yard.
The mud was their idea.
The dining table will not be covered with expensive linens, fancy china,
or crystal goblets. If possible, we will use dishes that
match and everyone will get a fork. Since this IS Thanksgiving,
we will refrain from using the plastic Peter Rabbit plates
and the Santa napkins from last Christmas.
Our centerpiece will not be the tower of fresh fruit and flowers that I
promised. Instead we will be displaying a hedgehog-like decoration
hand-crafted from the finest construction paper.
The artist assures me it is a turkey.
We will be dining fashionably late.
The children will entertain you while you wait.
I'm sure they will be happy to share every choice comment I have made
regarding Thanksgiving, pilgrims and the turkey hotline.
Please remember that most of these comments were made at 5:00 a.m.
upon discovering that the turkey was still hard enough to cut diamonds.
As accompaniment to the children's recital, I will play my recording of
tribal drumming. If the children should mention that I
don't own a recording of tribal drumming, or that tribal drumming
sounds suspiciously like a frozen turkey in a clothes dryer, ignore them.
They are lying.
We toyed with the idea of ringing a dainty silver bell to announce the
start of our feast. In the end, we chose to keep our traditional method.
We've also decided against a formal seating arrangement.
When the smoke alarm sounds, please gather around the table
and sit where you like. In the spirit of harmony, we will ask the children
to sit at a separate table.
In a separate room.
Next door.
Now, I know you have all seen pictures of one person
carving a turkey in front of a crowd of appreciative onlookers.
This will not be happening at our dinner.
For safety reasons, the turkey will be carved in a private
ceremony. I stress "private" meaning: Do not, under any
circumstances, enter the kitchen to laugh at me. Do not send small,
unsuspecting children to check on my progress.
I have an electric knife. The turkey is unarmed.
It stands to reason that I will eventually win. When I do, we will eat.
I would like to take this opportunity to remind my young diners that
"passing the rolls" is not a football play. Nor is it a request
to bean your sister in the head with warm tasty bread.
Oh, and one reminder for the adults: For the duration of the meal, and
especially while in the presence of young diners, we will refer to the
giblet gravy by its lesser-known name: Cheese Sauce.
If a young diner questions you regarding the origins
or type of Cheese Sauce, plead ignorance.
Cheese Sauce stains.
Before I forget, there is one last change. Instead of offering a choice
between 12 different scrumptious desserts, we will be serving the
traditional pumpkin pie, garnished with whipped cream and small fingerprints.
You will still have a choice; 1. Take it or 2. Leave it.
I hope you aren't too disappointed that Martha Stewart
will not be dining with us this Thanksgiving.
She probably won't come next year either.
HAPPY THANKSGIVING!
This post over at Not Your Usual Suspects made me chuckle. From the looks of the comments, I'm not the only anti-social one out there. Phew!
It wasn't until I was editing these photos that the irony struck me of finding a bike in Deadwood with Ian McShane on it...or is that more dorky than I want to sound?
