A Latke For Your Thought-Ke

 

Nothing rhymes with latkes

In English that is true
In Yiddish try gatkes

Long underwear to you 

Shredded spuds, golden brown

A Hanukkah delight

Grab a plate, sit right down

Menorahs shining bright

Fried or baked or frozen

It's all delish to me

Some may call us Chosen
Ask Judah Maccabee

The Illusion of Control

This is not what my table looks like.

"Sometimes, it's important to give people the illusion of being in control." So says Tony Soprano. When it comes to Thanksgiving, this is my mantra. To maintain the illusion of control, I do everything too early. I set the table too early. I overthink every detail too early. And most importantly, I buy the turkeys too early, especially this year. If you threaten me with a turkey shortage, I will respond, accordingly. A few weeks back, I called a guy. It went something like this:

"Trader Joe's. Gobbles speaking."

"Gobbles, hi, it's the Short Jewish Gal."

"Short Jewish what?"

"Never mind, Gobbles. I need turkeys. Two of 'em. The brined ones. Capiche?"

"I got ya. No worries. They're comin' in next Thursday, 9 a.m. Call first. Ask for me. I'll set ya up. "

"Great. Thanks, Gobbles. You're a mensch."

Exactly one week later, at 9 a.m., I call Trader Joe's. It goes something like this:

"Trader Joe's. Cranberry speaking."

"Cranberry, hi. It's the Short Jewish Gal."

"Hi. I'm the Tall Catholic Goddess." 

"I need to talk to Gobbles."

"Gobbles doesn't work here any more."

"Wait. What?"

"They canned him."

"I don't understand."

"They caught him selling our beloved, highly-coveted brined turkeys off the back of his truck late last night."

"What kind of person does that?"

"A guy named Gobbles, that's who." 

"Bastard!"

"I know, right?"

"Cranberry, tell me, are there any brined turkeys left?"

"There might be two in the back. I'll go check." 

"Hurry, Cranberry. Hurry. My Thanksgiving depends on it."

Two minutes later, she returns.

"You're in luck. I got two 18-pounders."

"Bless you, Cranberry. I'll be right over." 

I arrive, and there she is. Cranberry. A crown of red berries in her hair, a beatific smile on her punim. She beckons me forward. "Be cool," she says, and takes me in the back. Awaiting me: the brined turkeys. The only two left. I express my gratitude. Cranberry nods. "You're welcome." I rush home and make room in the fridge. Every day, I look at my turkeys and feel good about my life. Now all I have to do is cook them to total perfection. Or at least create that illusion for 21 guests.