Ah, those good old Cape May days… by Jackson D’Catur
How I love Thanksgiving. I played no small part in making it what it is today, though I am not one to boast. Back in my day – the date of which eludes me now, but I recall we rode horses and had pearly-handled six-guns at our waists… or was it that we wore pearls? I forget. Anyway, back in my day, Thanksgiving was a rougher affair, and I am ashamed to say we did have less of the civilized dinner and more of the sort of evening which ended with us full of home-made liquor and chasing the area’s put-upon Indians around on horseback, shooting in the air and shouting “How’s THIS for thanks for your kindess? Yeeha!”
In later years we realized the error of our ways and this practice ceased, out of compassion and the fact that there seemed to be no more Indians left. This was doubly unfortunate because I had just – through repeated application of the butt of my revolver to foreheads – taught my gang (we all had gangs then, and mustaches) to refer to this fine land’s original occupants not as Injuns, but Native Americans.
Not long after, I decided that the twin holiday activities of tormenting locals and shooting buffalo were no longer acceptable and introduced the notion of eating turkey so as to ensure everyone was too stuffed (though not in the same manner as the turkey) to indulge in any mayhem.
Oh, the Thanksgiving dinners myself and the late Mrs D’Catur used to hold in Cape May. We once seated 500 people at one table, which was carved from a single giant redwood tree, and ate between us a flock of turkeys that, when they were herded into town, took a day to pass any one point. Young Albert herded them, too, ensuring good order for the small cost of a few hundred sneakily consumed birds.
Of course in those days turkeys were natural birds, used to running wild, and weighed less than ten ounces, most of which was beak and attitude, and so one diner could munch his way through 200 or more before the table was restocked.
Nowadays your turkey is a genetic monster created by Yankee scientists, many of them Nazis snatched from Berlin in the last days of the War. It weighs over a ton, with no wings and a dozen legs. Stuffing such a bird takes a team of grown men, and in more than one instance a hapless Thanksgiving cook has been roasted inside his or her bird.
Such creations have no place in the D’Catur household, and Young Albert has been sent forth to bring back a brace of wild turkeys each day in preparation. Ideally, not pre-chewed.