No, trust me, I get it. I’m the cute one. I’m sweet, I’m red, and I plop out of a can. It’s fun. It’s endearing. It’s hilarious.
But enough is enough. My therapist told me to be direct about my feelings—to really engage with them—so before you all dig in and give your thanks, I would like to say a few things that have been on my mind for a while now. Because damn it, I’m a legitimate part of the meal, and it’s about time I was treated as such.
Ahem.
Plainly put, I’m very, very sad. O.K.? Hurt, humiliated, a little fed up maybe. Whatever you want to call it, something clearly isn’t right here, and we—well, I was about to say we all know it, but judging from the looks on all of your faces, I seem to be the only one who thought there was a problem. Am I correct? Wow. All right. Unbelievable.
There goes a whole year spent planning this moment to a T, but you know what—hey, no problemo. Happy to accommodate. I guess it’s my fault for assuming I was anything more than a glorified dipping sauce to you people.
Look, do you think I don’t see what you see? I’m repulsive. I stick out like a sore thumb. A red, wobbly sore thumb. Plopped down on this table with the ridges from my can still branded into my side, othering me, shaming me—your store-bought freak, your high-caloric Hester Prynne. You could at least slice me and give me an ounce of dignity. But no, that’s life, baby. That’s me: Thanksgiving’s Elephant Man. Just the cold, wet afterthought to a piping-hot feast cooked with patience and love. Here to jiggle for you, to be cut with a spoon, and to silently weep.
God, and to think that I spent years in factories and in boxes and on trucks and on shelves all to be paraded out behind your basted, seasoned, and—let’s be honest—pretty overcooked “delicacies.” For what? For this. You know, I deserve some credit for even being a part of this tradition. To say the odds were against me would be putting it mildly. But I earned this. Because guess what? Deep down, I’m good.
And you know what? You’re not. You’re disgusting. The way you people talk, belch, indulge in your orgies of savory fats. What a feast! What a spread! Oh, the turkey looks divine! Did you make this stuffing yourself? These yams, good heavens! Try the sprouts! Who brought the sweet-potato casserole? Well I am not leaving here without that recipe!
And oh, what is that … cranberry sauce?
Yeah. It is.
It is cranberry sauce.
But no, you know what? Screw it. I can join in the fun. I can give thanks. Oh, I can definitely give thanks. Let’s go around the table, shall we?
I’m thankful to Debbie for serving me on a goddamn plate, allowing me to slide off onto the tablecloth a grand total of four times.
I’m thankful to Frank for running back into the kitchen to get that novelty turkey spoon to serve me with, like I wasn’t already everybody’s monkey in a sailor suit.
I’m thankful to little Jack for running his stupid six-year-old mouth and saying I taste like candy.
I’m thankful to Aunt Beth for agreeing with him like he’s the child she never was able to have. (Still alone, by the way.)
I’m thankful to wide-eyed college gal Kate for saying that the only good thing about me is that I’m vegan. Keep making a difference. The world needs you.
I’m thankful to dumb baby Julie for mashing me onto her face and turning me into an integral part of her desperate, pandering clown routine.
But most of all, I’m thankful to each of the fat, drooling cousins from Weehawken. Because without those mouthbreathers, I wouldn’t be gobbled up like slop in a trough, alone, not flavoring anything, like some sort of sweet, third-world spam.
Look, just because I’m Ocean Spray doesn’t mean I can’t cry.
I’ve got feelings, I’m scrumptious, and I deserve more.
So thanks, fuck you very much, and by all means, bon appetit.
Photograph by Lew Robertson/Getty.
