Page 32 of Stuff My Turkey
"Canned," he admitted, sheepishly holding up the cylinder. "I like the ridges."
"Heath McGraw," I laughed, "heritage breed champion, defender of genetic diversity, likes mass-produced, jellied cranberry sauce?"
"Everyone's got their vices," he shrugged, a hint of the old playfulness returning to his eyes.
The doorbell rang, shattering our moment of levity.
"Showtime," Heath muttered, straightening his shoulders.
The Vickerys swept in first, Dottie bearing a dish of what looked like green Jell-O with floating vegetables—a nightmare straight from a 1950s cookbook.
"We brought my special Thanksgiving salad," she announced, placing it on the table. "It's been a family tradition for generations."
"It looks... interesting," I offered, eyeing the suspended carrot chunks with trepidation.
Knox and Bitsy arrived moments later, their coordinated autumn outfits replaced by equally coordinated Thanksgiving attire—Bitsy in a burnt orange dress with a turkey brooch, Knox in matching slacks and vest.
"Something smells amazing!" Bitsy gushed, sniffing the air theatrically.
"I hope you're hungry," I said, silently praying they wouldn't notice the absence of the classic savory aromas.
As everyone settled around the table, Dottie's eyes narrowed at the centerpiece. "What is that... thing?"
"Tofurkey," I explained with forced cheerfulness. "It's a vegetarian alternative."
"But where's the meat?" Earl asked, looking around as if expecting it to appear.
Heath cleared his throat. "We had a slight... timing issue. The turkey needs another hour or two."
Dottie gasped, fingering her pearl necklace nervously. "What kind of Thanksgiving has no turkey?" Her voice rose with each word, scandalized.
"A progressive one?" I suggested weakly.
"Don't worry," I added hastily, seeing Earl's face darken to an alarming shade of crimson. "The soy version tastes just like the real thing. You won't even notice the difference."
The skeptical glances around the table suggested no one believed me—including myself.
"Well," Earl said after an uncomfortable pause, "let's say grace and make the best of it."
We all bowed our heads as Earl began a lengthy thanksgiving prayer, thanking the Lord for everything from the food to the heritage of America to the blessings of capitalism. As he wound down, I couldn't resist adding my own contribution.
"And thank you to the noble spirits of the plants that nourish us today," I said solemnly.
Knox snorted into his napkin while Bitsy giggled nervously. Heath's foot found mine under the table, a gentle pressure that felt like solidarity.
"Amen," Dottie said loudly, clearly trying to gloss over my addition.
The serving began, with each person taking a reluctant slice of tofurkey. Heath added a generous helping of cranberry sauce to his plate—which prompted an immediate reaction from Dottie.
"You don't make your own cranberry sauce?" she asked, eyebrows arched high. "My mother always said you can judge a household by its cranberry sauce."
"The canned stuff is a tradition in the McGraw house," Heath defended, though I noticed his ears reddening.
"Homemade is far superior," Earl declared. "No comparison."
"I don't know," Knox chimed in, surprising me by backing his brother. "Something satisfying about the jelly—goes down smoother."
As the great cranberry debate raged on, I took my first bite of tofurkey and immediately regretted it. The texture was somewhere between rubber and wet cardboard, with a flavor that reminded me of licking a vitamin bottle. Hints of sage couldn't mask the underlying bitterness that lingered on mytongue like punishment. I choked it down, reaching quickly for my water glass.
