Technically, Thanksgiving is about harvest and gratitude. In reality, it marks the ceremonial ribbon-cutting for Food Season—that unbroken culinary gauntlet stretching from pumpkin pie straight into the January resolutions.
At fifty-seven, your metabolism doesn't just slow down; it pulls over to the ditch, puts on the hazards, and crawls into the back seat for a nap. Knowing this, I’ve had to run a tight ship. Through months of grim portion control, I had actually been holding my own. My belt was behaving itself, and I had begun to harbor the dangerous delusion that I possessed willpower.
Then came last weekend's turkey.
The trouble with Thanksgiving isn't just the meal itself. It’s that your subconscious looks out at the wind whipping across the empty stubble fields and decides you need an extra layer of blubber just to drag the garbage bins to the street. It feels purely biological. Or at least, that is what I tell myself while ladling gravy over things that did not strictly require lubrication.
Now comes the hard part. We have barely boiled down the carcass for soup before posters appear on every bulletin board in town advertising the local "fowl suppers"—or "fall suppers," depending on how the church committee feels about poultry puns that year. Either way, they dare you not to show up and support the community. From there, it’s miniature Halloween chocolate bars, staff Christmas parties, and tins of shortbread. All of it marches relentlessly toward the grand finale—another colossal holiday feast washed down with plenty of New Year’s cheer.
A sensible man would simply resolve to practice moderation. That was the plan, anyway. But looking back at the wreckage of last weekend’s kitchen counter, good intentions didn't stand a chance. The gravy boat sailed, and my willpower went down with the ship.
My immediate goal is simple survival. The feast lasts until New Year’s, but winter lasts until spring. If my winter jacket makes it to April without popping a seam, I’ll consider the season a moral victory.