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!

Happy Ending

I've been eaten, so this will be my last post. There will of course be turkey sandwiches, turkey casseroles, and turkey soups for a few days; but the climactic moment, the moment for which I came into existence and for which I have been breathlessly waiting for as long as I have been aware, has come and gone. I have fulfilled my destiny.

I was magnificent.

Here I am being unwrapped.


Here, I've been brushed all over with melted butter. What a delicious sensation!


I blush a little bit to show you this one. Carrots, onions, and bay leaves go - you know - inside.


Here I am ready to go into the oven!


And here I am all golden-brown and ready to carve. I bet my previous owner wishes he hadn't given me away now - but no. No, I have no need to be bitter. Just look at me!


It goes without saying there were mashed potatoes.


And here I am, juicy, carved, on the plate, with mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, and black-eyed peas cooked with bacon, onions and collard greens. What a perfect New Year's feast!


From a (formerly) frozen turkey to you: May your 2007 be full and happy, may you always know what you want, and may you never have to wait too long for it.

Thawing, no, really, this time I really mean it!

This isn't quite the way I always pictured it would be.


But I don't care. I'm being thawed! There can be no doubt about it. I'm going to be eaten. I think I'm going to be a New Year's Day dinner!

It's got me to thinking about how easy it is to lose sight of the present by focusing yourself completely on some perhaps unattainable ideal. Will the reality live up to my expectations? I have spent an awfully long time sitting around dreaming about the big dinner - the cranberries - the gravy - oh, the potatoes.

And of course the answer is that it doesn't really matter. All that matters is that it's really finally happening. This is my purpose and I will serve it to the best of my ability. And I'm not sorry, not really, not now, that I've had all this time in the freezer. It's taught me a lot. I'll never look at green beans the same way, that's for sure.

I really hope I'm tasty.

A change?

Something has happened.

It's hard to understand, but must be a good sign, don't you think? This morning my owner took me out of the freezer, and I hoped he was going to start thawing me, but instead he packed me up and put me in the car and drove me across town, where he handed me to someone else. A new owner?

Oh my God. I've been regifted!

Not that I really care. After all, any owner has got to be more likely to eat me than the one I've had so far.

The new freezer is the same size as the old one, but with a lot more ice trays. They're empty. Also there are some frozen vegetables and - ooooooooh - potatoes.

I have fairly strong feelings about potatoes.

Two more days until Christmas! I think I'm finally going to be eaten! I'm so excited!

Just for a change

Today I got eaten.

Psych!!!

Just eight more days till Christmas, though! If I don't get eaten then, maybe I'll take up knitting.

Travesty

It's just wrong that I haven't been eaten yet, don't you think? Look at me: I'm plump! I'm juicy! I'm tender! I'm positively scrumptious!

Well, maybe Christmas 2006 will be the Big Day. I'm so ready. I hope the cranberry sauce isn't that canned crap, that's all I have to say. I deserve better.