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Thursday, November 24, 2016

A Thanksgiving Repost: Feathers!

Happy Thanksgiving to one and all, and a repost from The Diplomad's Thanksgivings past . . . .

Feathers 

Yes, feathers. Not the figurative kind that fill leftoid heads, but the real kind that cover birds. We are going light today. Our topic is feathers and how they nearly produced a civil war in the Diplomad clan, and how echoes of that strife apparently will reverberate on the 4th of July.

As the six regular readers of this blog are painfully aware, during the Reagan years I served for a time at the UN in New York. We loved New York City, even with all its inconveniences especially with two rambunctious boys. Schooling was a problem as the local PS was, well, pretty bad. When two of the vastly overpaid teachers at the school told us that they would never send their own kids there, we decided to yank our boys out and send them--at considerable cost to the Diplomad bottom line--to private schools. One went to a school run by Irish Catholic nuns, who wanted no parental involvement, "Thank you very much, but we know how to do this." The older son went to one run by strangely liberal, yet oddly conservative Jews who wanted lots of parental involvement in the school as long as the parents did what the school wanted. Hey, it's New York. Live with it.

Well, as it does every year, the Thanksgiving holiday rolled around. You must understand we had spent most of our lives overseas. The boys had been born in Spain, and hardly had been in the US. Educated abroad, they--God help me--had grown to love soccer football soccer with both of them becoming (and remaining to this day) rabid fans of Spain's La Furia Roja. Their grip on Americana was a bit weak. Please remember that as this saga proceeds.

Another piece of background you will need. My Spanish wife hates, detests, abhors, loathes, etc, feathers and any creature sporting them. She shows a special wrath for chickens, turkeys, ducks, and geese. She cannot stand the thought of fowl on the meal plate. I have seen her blanche and break out into a cold sweat at fancy diplo dinners when served quail, duck or some other feather-bearing beast. It is not funny; better said, she has no sense of humor about this matter. My efforts to convince her that chicken tastes just like iguana have had no positive effect. Whenever we go to a restaurant, regardless of what she orders, she insists on, ahem, grilling the waiter on whether any foul fowl was involved in the making of her pending meal, "Uh, no ma'am, our salmon is, uh, salmon. It's a fish, not a bird." "Yes, yes, but the rice and the vegetables, were they cooked with chicken?" I am used to it by now.

Thanksgiving Day in New York, 1985. My older son, then about six was in a bad mood. I asked what was wrong, "You have no school today. Mom is making a nice Thanksgiving meal. What's wrong?" He glared at me, "The Pilgrims did not eat paella! They ate turkey!"

Explanation. Given the Diplowife's aversion to feathery creatures, our overseas Thanksgiving Day meals consisted of seafood paella. My wife had, ahem, implied in some way . . . oh, heck, she flat out told the kids that the Pilgrims ate paella with the Indians. Maybe she was thinking about Cortez and Pizarro, I don't know, but anyhow the kids had gotten into their heads that paella was the meal on Thanksgiving. Now in NY, the older boy had been asked the previous day to make a presentation at school on Thanksgiving. He, of course, reported that the English Pilgrims sat down and shared paella with the Native Americans. This caused a bit of a commotion and, I guess, led to some considerable ridicule, or what the politically correct nanny-staters now would label "bullying."

He was furious with us. He refused to eat paella and demanded a turkey. Even my wife was shocked into submission by the uncompromising fury coming from the tyke. It was Thanksgiving Day. I had to find a turkey in Manhattan! I dashed out of our building on the upper east side. All of the supermarkets were closed. A turkey! My kingdom for a turkey! I wandered the cold, darkling desolate concrete canyons, my despair growing and threatening to overwhelm me. I had let down my kids! The wages of sin, the consequences of falsehoods! God give me a sign that You will allow me to redeem myself . . . Wait! A deli! Still open but about to close! I ran in! Turkey sandwiches! They must have a turkey somewhere! A bizarre negotiation followed in which I finally convinced the suspicious Pakistani owner of the "Jewish" deli to sell me a whole kosher turkey at the price per pound of the sliced sandwich meat. I paid him a fortune--in cash--for a small bird about the size of a Chihuahua, and ran like the Grinch with my turkey under my arm.

My kids had turkey that day, and every other Thanksgiving since then has featured a big bird on the table. My wife refuses to sit anywhere near it, and has her own separate fish-based meal.

This will be an issue on the Fourth of July. The Thanksgiving paella got moved to Independence Day. The kids, now grown, of course, alas, are starting to make noises of impending rebellion against paella and in favor of hot dogs and other beast meat. The Diplowife mistrusts hotdogs, even the kosher all-beef ones, as stealth chicken missiles. She does not want anything with the potential of bearing fowl touching our BBQ grill or being anywhere near anything else that might be cooking. It appears that we might have a split Fourth meal. One side of the family eating chicken wings and hotdogs, and the other with the paella. Now that I think about it, this seems an appropriate metaphor for what is happening to our country.

15 comments:

  1. Back at you on the Thanksgiving!
    James the Lesser

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  2. If I were negotiating with the Diplowife, I might start from her attitude to eggs. Which is?

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  3. By the way, we've become such favoured customers of a local goose farmer that we have an invitation to visit him in June to see the goslings. We could invite your wife to join us.

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  4. As one of your six loyal readers, I am aware that your wife has innumerable sterling qualities, so bearing with her eccentric attitude toward fowl seems a small price to pay. Anyway, it's well that the foibles of your loved ones are unique and make entertaining anecdotes, unlike well-worn vegetarianism, alcoholism, etc.

    You refer to the Diplowife as "Spanish," but I think that paella is a regional dish of Catalonia. Query whether she refers to herself as Spanish or Catalan.

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    1. The previous unknown is Michael Adams of Round Rock,TX

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    2. Round and round the ragged rock the ragged rascal ran. TX.

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  5. Thanks for a nice laugh after I spent a half hour peeling rutabaga, my family tradition. Happy Thanksgiving, especially in this year where we have so much to be thankful for.

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  6. Dip, I feel your pain. My Diplowife, being Taiwanese, comes from the culture that wrote the book on poultry.

    Our problem is, well, turkey often comes out way too dry. One Thanksgiving when we could not join the extended clan and had to do it ourselves, we went out and bought a couple of roast ducks from a local Chinese grocery. Yum! Maybe people will think us unpatriotic, but your story of your wife's paella makes me bold enough to make this admission.

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  7. The Diplowife is wise to be suspicious of Hot Dogs. "Hot Dog" is an obscure Latin phrase meaning "Brownish Stuff". New research indicates that Hot Dogs may have been responsible for the extinction of the dinosaurs (Forget that Comet foolishness.)and the Fall of the Roman Empire.

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    1. No wonder hotdogs used to give me headaches when I was a kid. Bratwurst, country sausage, la chang, and merguez,on the other hand, are something else.

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  8. Dip,

    I really enjoy reading your strolls down memory lane! I still laugh about the "midgets" in oversize clothing outside your home during the power outage.

    My wife's family who moved to the Midwest in the 1960's and 1970's for jobs, were originally from the mountains of West Virginia. They, too, have some unique traditions (usually involving potato chips) particular to them that were strange to this country boy. My wife died in 2011 at age 43 from Stage 4 colon cancer, and I miss some of those traditions now when I look back.

    Another avid reader/lurker,

    Blue Tile Spook

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  9. The trouble with having an aversion to feathers is that you'll not get to enjoy a meal of roadkill pheasant. I suppose you must make do with roadkill deer instead.

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  10. If you replace feathers with onions, you are talking about me.

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