Brined, Koshered, deep-fat-fried, raised by the Amish, raised by hand, spoon-fed, whatever. I'm talking turkey. Tofurkey. Steak. Whatever is on your table. I'm talking how the sausage is made.
It's more of an event, like the New Year's ball dropping in Times Square. The tanned turkey on the table signifies something: we made it.
We're all together again, eating this thing, the board groaning with more pies than anyone can eat. What is means is overabundance. Richness. Sweet success in the sweet potatoes. The family pushed the sleeves on their workshirts up and all worked hard to get here, despite traffic, and infants' schedules, and the weather. It was complicated.
That's the deal. We are Puritans, we are grateful for the struggle, I think. It seems counterintuitive. I would rather some tropical pool of mossy ease like I experienced on vacation hiking in Hawaii several years ago, but instead my ancestral soul is temperate. There is famine in my genes.
Therefore, we mincemeat.