The chicken is spoiled
Being born Jewish brings along with it quite a few obligatory holidays which we celebrate in ways unheard of by the other 99% of the world. Tu’ Bshvat, the birthday of trees, celebrated by eating dates, prunes, and various other foods no one under the age of 73 would willingly eat. Lag Ba-Omer, the 33rd day after Passover, celebrated by the masses drunkenly bouncing around a wild bonfire. Then there are the other “holidays”, those days that we get off from school but no one is sure why. Such days are referred to as “Thanksgiving”, “Christmas”, and “New Years”. These holidays are celebrated differently than the rest, in the afternoon we go out to the movies grab some ice cream, and by nightfall we dine in a fine Chinese restaurant. As you can understand this is all part of the Jewish religion, after all, this is how its been done for the past 5,770 years.
My mothers face dropped. I had no idea who was on the other side of the phone but I was nervous. I knew this could not be good. She hung up and turned to me, “That was Carrie, she just invited us for Thanksgiving dinner.”
Thanksgiving? Has her house become a Chinese restaurant? Are we converting? What’s going on here? I’m not following. It took a week of arguing until my brother and I gave in. 5,770 years of tradition; at least we still have Christmas to look forward to.
When the day came, it started off in the same fashion that our ancestors have done so many years ago. We saw Casino Royale. Bond, James Bond. It felt so natural. So festive, it was so hard to believe the impending course events.
Leaving the theater it began to sink in. We walked by Coldstone without going in. We couldn’t go in, if we did we’d be late. We weren’t going to a Chinese restaurant. We weren’t even ordering Chinese takeout. We were driving to my cousin’s house for her so-called “Thanksgiving dinner”.
I’m still not sure where she got idea from, but the house was decorated like a bridal shower. Turns out, orange is the new pink. Orange streamers cascading the living room. Orange sequins scattered the little round tables. Orange napkins. Orange tablecloths. I checked the corner of the room for gifts, there was none.
I surveyed the room for something edible. Corn looking salad. Maybe beans. Cranberry liquid. Mashed potatoes, orange of course. Some liquid meant to be poured over your food. Pumpkin bread? Where did my cousin grow up? Bread is meant to be of rye and used for pastrami sandwiches with only a pickle on the side, or in the form of a bagel with some lox and schmear.
As I headed back into the living room my plate empty and my stomach even emptier, Carrie came rushing into room with a steaming tin held in her bright orange oven mittens. The ‘ohhs’ and ‘ahhhs’ were astounding. Seems everyone was just as hungry as I was. A line formed and within seconds plates were being filled with this juicy moist white meat. Oh thank heaven.
The amazing aroma filled the room. I was still on line but now not hungry, my mind was already eating it. I tasted it. I felt it. But now it was in my plate. I was cutting it. It was in my mouth I tasted it. I spit it out.
“Mom, this chicken tastes weird, I think its spoiled”.
I put down plate and headed to find my brother. By the look on his face he had just experienced the “spoiled chicken” also.
“Coldstone?” I asked.
“Coldstone,” he said.
