Forgetting

Do not grieve that I have crossed
To - I can't tell you where;
Do not weep, do not be lost
And burdened down with care;

Don't ache for what you cannot reach,
In time, you will come too;
You cannot know, do not beseech -
Now is not time for you.

You dream I miss you: and I might,
And still watch, from above,
And warm your presence, in the night
Outlived by lasting love;

Or nothing may yet wait beyond,
And void alone is death.
But you won't care, when you are gone,
Live, live, while there is breath.

Joyful Wishes from Beyond the Oven

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone! I feel a bit smug saying that, since I've already been eaten. Thanksgiving used to be a day of intense anxiety followed by deep disappointment. Now I can freely and cheerfully wish you joy. I'm thankful!

Wherever you are, whether you want to be there or not. Hope everything is juicy! Just please try to hold off on the Christmas music for a few more hours, if you don't mind.

Wish yourself away

The holidays are a rough time for a lot of people. Before I got eaten, they were a real bitch for me: is this finally the one? Will this be the Thanksgiving/Christmas/New Year's/Easter/Fourth of July/St. Patrick's Day/Arbor Day for which I came into existence?

Now maybe your situation is a bit like mine was: stuck in the freezer with a bunch of green beans and frozen pizzas stacked on top of you, not knowing if you'll ever be able to get out. It's hard. You have this idealized vision of the perfect holiday feast, surrounded by the ones you love. And instead you have to go somewhere you don't want to be, with people you don't even like.

Did I say people? I meant frozen foods.

It's lonely, and frustrating to feel how little choice you have in matters that concern you the most. You don't get to decide who you live with or what you do or where you go. It shouldn't be this way.

"Pennsylvania Dutch" Sour Cream Apple Pie

Via the Austin Chronicle, the most heavenly apple pie you will ever taste in your life.

Pennsylvania Dutch Sour Cream Apple Pie

crust:

1.5 cups flour

1/2 tsp salt

3 Tbs sugar

1/2 tsp cinnamon

1 stick cold unsalted butter, cut in chunks

2-4 Tbs ice cold apple juice to bind

Combine the dry ingredients in a mixing bowl and cut in the cold butter chunks with a pastry cutter until the mixture resembles pea gravel. Carefully add the apple juice a little at a time until the dough comes together in a ball. Wrap the dough in plastic wrap and chill for at least an hour before rolling. Roll out the dough on a lightly floured surface and place in a deep 10-inch pie pan, crimping the edges in a decorative pattern. Chill the pie shell while filling is assembled.

filling:

1 1/4 cup sour cream

1 large egg

3/4 cup sugar

1/4 cup flour

1/2 tsp salt

2 tsp vanilla

7 Granny Smith (or other crisp, tart apples) peeled, cored, and sliced

Preheat oven to 400deg. F. In a mixing bowl, whisk together the sour cream and the egg. Combine the sugar and flour and whisk into the liquid mixture. Add the salt and vanilla. Place the apple slices in the custard as they are sliced. Pour the apple custard into the prepared pie shell, place on a cookie sheet, and bake for 10 minutes at 400deg. F to set the crust. Lower the heat to 350deg. F and bake for 40 minutes more. While pie is baking, prepare topping.

topping:

1 cup flour

1/2 cup sugar

1/2 cup brown sugar

1 tsp cinnamon

a dash of salt

1 cup walnut pieces

6 Tbs melted butter (approx)

Combine dry ingredients in a mixing bowl and carefully add melted butter, working with hands to form a crumbly topping. When the pie has baked 40 minutes, remove from oven, completely cover the apples with topping and return to oven for 10 minutes more at 350deg. F. Remove from oven and cool on a rack. This pie must be stored in the refrigerator but it tastes best at room temperature or warmed just a bit. It will serve 10 people and there are rarely any leftovers.

Cockblocking

Frozen turkeys have no gender, all the parts of a living turkey that determine its sex having been long since removed. This goes double if you've been cooked and eaten.

So I don't know, really, whether the animal whose body became me was a turkey cock, or a turkey - um, hen. Nonetheless, as a direct (if spiritual) descendent of a fowl, I feel myself qualified to digress at some length on the phenomenon of cockblocking.

You may or may not be familiar with the term (though, if you've arrived here by googling it, you probably are). Generally speaking, to cockblock someone is to act in a manner that prevents that someone from getting laid. So, for example, a girl with a lot of gay male friends can be cockblocked if she goes out with one for a nice dinner and dancing: other men, who might be interested in approaching her, assume that she's on a date.

Similarly, women can cockblock their gay male friends. The term can even be used by a straight man to describe the effect of hanging around with a platonic female friend. I don't think it's generally used among lesbians, since in that case cocks aren't involved at all. But I could be wrong. I'm posting from the big happy freezer in the sky, okay? I might be a little out of touch.

But the most insidious form of cockblocking comes when the cockblocked person - let's say a woman - has feelings for the cockblocker. She's in love with him. He might or might not have similar feelings for her, but for whatever reason, he's not prepared to act on them, if he does. But he likes her and enjoys her; she's smart, she's pretty, she's funny, she's pleasant to look at and to be with, especially as she's so anxious to please him. He knows what her feelings are and enjoys those, too. So he encourages her - not too much, perhaps, but just enough, here and there, to ensure that her feelings don't fade, that she'll still hang on, hoping for him, hoping for more, wanting to be loved in return. They spend plenty of time together. She's usually very flirtatious, and he enjoys flirting back. But there's a clear line he's drawn that she can't cross; she can't get too close to him. She doesn't know how he feels about her.

Oh, he doesn't mean badly. He probably doesn't have a lot of experience with women, and discovering that this one has fallen head over heels for him is heady, but a bit intimidating. He's not a bad person by any means - if he were, why would a smart girl like her think he's so wonderful? But he's cockblocking the hell out her, because as long as she's hung up on him, she can't even think about anybody else.

I watch them, bemused, from the great joyful freezer in the sky. I pity them both. Heaven is knowing you're lucky you don't have any of those complicated gendery bits.

Now What?

Where do frozen turkeys go after they are cooked and eaten?

I suppose the question of a frozen turkey's afterlife is, metaphysically speaking, a bit problematic. What, after all, happened to the living, breathing, gobbling turkey, the mortal creature that died so its body could become me? Perhaps it's in some other heaven: sunnier maybe, but not as plentifully provided with mashed potatoes. Or else it's just around the corner. Whatever the case, I haven't met it. I'm just as glad; wouldn't that be awkward?

But, metaphysics aside, here I am, writing to you: writing from another plane of existence, my earthly friends. And I wonder how the earth is treating you all? Are you still struggling? Have you figured it all out yet?

Well, you lack perspective, if you don't mind my saying so. I'm curious as to how you envision heaven. Earthbound poets usually portray it as some place of ultimate serenity, whose cloud-skipping, harp-strumming, halo-bedecked denizens spend every waking aeon contemplating the prospect of a benevolent eternity.

Boring!

Heaven is, as it has to be, much like Earth in a lot of ways, because you can't have contentment without struggle. It doesn't work that way. There's no sense of accomplishment, after all, without toiling for something. And joy is heightened by its contrast to the things that are not joyful: disappointment, sorrow, loss, even heartbreak. You can never truly know happiness without contrasting it against pain.

Heaven is perfection, and perfection lies in balance. So even still we must give up something we value in order to be granted something we prize. It's meant to be like this. Cranberry relish is sweeter for the bitter walnuts and morsels of orange rind nestled within. Mashed potatoes are creamier for the occasional lump.

My heaven is heaven indeed, so don't think for a moment that I'm not happy because TV dinners and Cheez Whiz stand side-by-side with the good things here. Some days are blissful and other days are not. Heaven is knowing that when things are bad, they will turn around for you again. And heaven is being the master of your own fate.

I'd like to start blogging again from this strangely clear new perspective. Perhaps I will help open an avenue towards understanding the ultimate meaning of existence. But if not, I can still post the occasional recipe.

I bless you with the eternal aroma of roasting turkey. Happy living!