I wrote this post while I was working on my second Heineken in the airport in North Platte, Nebraska, back in late November:
This year, in the usual fashion, my grandparents opted to transgress from the norm and roast a chicken for Thanksgiving in lieu of a turkey. While I ordinarily prefer turkey, I was unprepared to suffer the side effects of gorging on tryptophan as we selected a box of "fine" red wine as an accompaniment.
Despite the alternate choice in game, the accoutrements were typical: giblet dressing, a decadent mashed sweet/russet potato hybrid, green beans, and bread. My grandfolks are unbelievable cooks. This, in spite of the fact that my granddad lost his sense of smell a few years ago after a freakish series of injuries preceded by a skin cancer diagnosis.
My grandfather's most recent malady aside from an October cardiac stent insertion, is the recent acquisition of a full set of upper dentures. He thinks they make him talk funny, but I remember him slewing a geyser of racial slurs and profanity since I could hear so throwing a lisp into the mix isn't likely to do much more damage. Despite the good fit of the dentures, he opts to chew tough foods for an hour or longer instead of using a denture adhesive. His argument is that Polygrip is for old people. The dude's 81 fucking years old.
Midway through the meal, my grandfather, in the usual crude fashion, looked over at me, looked at my grandma, put his hand up to his mouth, and pulled the chicken heart, fully intact, out of his craw saying slyly with a smirk smug enough to make the Pope want to make mincemeat out of him, "that would've taken me all day if I didn't choke on it first. Anybody else want it?"
I suppose, when I think about it, I probably am genetically related to this man. But I refuse to admit it in any legal capacity.