Your Civic Duty

Today is Election Day; and if I hadn't already been eaten, this is the day I'd like it to happen on. I'd still be good. Frozen turkeys keep indefinitely, you know.

For those of you who are not conceptional abstracts, or stuck in the freezer for that matter, be sure and do your civic duty and go vote! Naturally, I'm an Obama supporter, but everyone should vote their mind and their conscience whatever they believe. The frozen green beans are Republican through-and-through.

Have you ever sung in a chorus? I haven't; I'm poultry, for gosh sakes, so I'm just tossing this out as an example here. When you're part of a choir, everyone blends together harmoniously to produce something that seems greater by far than the sum of its parts. When you hit that zone, and perfect harmony is achieved, you can't even hear your own voice while you're singing. You've temporarily ceded your individuality towards the creation of something much grander and more noble, which nonetheless couldn't exist without you.

Of course, the electoral college system means that sometimes the basses get a little carried away, stomp over and kick the tenors' ass.

Still: vote! I can't, because I'm merely an abstract representation of what was once a big chunk of frozen meat; and imagine the fuss if I turned up at the polls. But you can. Make a difference! Vote!

Nice Turkeys Finish Last

So they always tell us, and perhaps my pre-consumption experiences bear it out: No one wants to eat you if you actually want to be eaten. No; the key is to be calm, casual, indifferent, perhaps even slightly adverse to the prospect of being dished up with gravy and mashed potatoes.

But I always felt much too passionate about mashed potatoes to be able to pretend I didn't care for them, let them think what they might.

Sometimes I wonder if I am unique in my ardent devotion to potatoes. Other people find them rather dull, and regard them merely as a filler to supplement more exciting dishes. These people just don't get it. They have no appreciation for the complex subtlety of the flavor of really good mashed potatoes: buttery, creamy, substantial, with perhaps just the faintest hint of onion and garlic. Leave the gravy off; it will overpower the glorious delicacy of the flavor. The occasional lump only serves to enhance the overall smooth texture of the dish. Delicious!

Perhaps I ached too intensely to be cooked and eaten; perhaps I tried too hard. Maybe that accounts for the lonely months I spent being shuttled from freezer to freezer, doing my best to bear with the indignity of having frozen pizzas and green beans stacked on top of me, watching carton after carton of ice cream be bought and consumed while I languished, alone.

But I got eaten, didn't I? I did - so in spite of everything you've ever read, the nice turkey got its just potatoes in the end. So take heart, human reader: there is hope for you too.

Hard To Believe We're in Heaven?

Here in Heaven, hors d'ouevres is French for "hours of eggs."

Jealous much?