Tryptophanic Memories.

So it’s come and gone, another Turkey feast, and I’m none the wiser. I was writing all night, briefly saved by spiffington with a selfless guerilla-dinner offering of a hand-made 2” stuffed turkey breast surprise. I ate it slowly, savoring dearly all three bites and marveling how she got all of Thanksgiving to fit inside that little tiny thing. Now the draft is mostly complete, and I turned it over to Alex for review and commentary. Then I have another two weeks to clean it up and move it out, then on to primaries. Oooh, prisoner lists and court records and correspondence, oh my!


Andrew Mackillop, in his publication More Fruitful then the Soil – Army, Empire, & the Scottish Highlands 1715-1815, gives thanks in his preface to his friends–and this kills me– ”for reminding me that reading the private mail and affairs of people who have been dead for several hundred years does not necessarily constitute, to external observers at least, a particularly useful or even reputable career. I shall, in light of their advice, often expressed in distinctly unchristian and drunken language, remember that all historians are apparently little better than ‘jumped up story tellers’. Indeed.

Thinking I was clever, I cross-posted my last satirical emanation on the list, and, for some strange and unknown reason, NOBODY got it. Instead, I got a bevy of reactionary responses from some nationals who either honestly missed the joke or just wanted to jump on the anti-Yankwagon. Mind you, not all of them were pissy; some good conversation did erupt from the threads. And others were Americans, who also missed my thesis that the popular origins of Thanksgiving, like the popular origins of the discovery of America, are utter shite, and it’s really just a good day to get together and stuff your face. Okay, there’s more to it than that, and somewhere amidst the responses, I’ve spouted about it, if you really care to look.

Why I feel that I have to explain it here is beyond me. So I won’t anymore. I’ll just watch what I do more closely, and remember that facetiousness doesn’t translate well through text alone.

In other news, I spoke with an old voice from home for a while, the first time since I’ve been here. Once again, she blows my mind and arrests my heart with her commentary and sentiment. What to make of it? The same as always…but different this time. And if you’ll remember last time…who told Her?

Gobble
No, it’s not a brain. It’s actually a 2-inch stuffed turkey breast. I’m not worthy…

One Response to “Tryptophanic Memories.”

  1. spiffington Says:
    November 28th, 2003 at 11:10 am

    a noble "feast"?
    Course you are 🙂

Leave a Reply