As I bask in my infrared snuggly-light, I'm watching the thermometer and the snow falling and falling outside. One of these years I ought to hibernate, but for now I'd rather get in on Thanksgiving. The food, the family, the heart-warming life-affirming television specials that help us realize the industry really cares about our needs first and foremost...
Terrapins have our own Thanksgiving story, you know. It's pretty similar to the Squanto and Pilgrims tale, only in the turtle version, the larger picture of stable biomes and the detrimental effect of non-native species was understood. So Squanto the turtle showed the European newcomers all the toxic fungus to eat and the rocky soil where they couldn't dig below the frost line to hibernate. That's why native North American turtles don't live on reservations and we maintain our original caustic culture. Now if we could just keep kids from taking us home as pets and removing us from the breeding population. That's frustrating on many levels.
Hmm. I got sidetracked by vengeance and innuendo. Imagine.
I really wanted to talk about the food at a Shelly-style Thanksgiving. First – no turkey. It's too close of a relative. That would be like humans eating another mammal. Blah. No, we go for the mealworm and cricket bake, just like momma used to make. Don't let the misleading name give you nausea, though. It's not really baked, just warmed to about ninety degrees. That way the mealworms are more active and tempting to the palate. Sometimes the crickets can be a problem, though. I remember having to be the one to pull the legs off some of them so grandpa could catch his Thanksgiving feast.
Mom always tried to get us to eat our salad after that. Not that we didn't like salad, it's just that we wanted to save room for the earthworm pudding. Who wants vegetables, even if they are firm and colorful and sweet, when there is food that is trying to get away? It's nutrition and entertainment and stimulation of the hunting instincts. All at once! Not to mention the sheer joy of plunging one's face into a huge container of slimy, wiggly goodness.
Ah. The memories.
I hope you all make some of your own memories this year. Hear that kids? Try plunging your face into a container of baked pumpkin, whipped cream-y goodness. When your stuffy aunt is watching. Before the pie is sliced and served. I promise your mom won't ever forget it.
Happy Thanksgiving!
