By John Kass

Wednesday Nov. 27, 2024

The last thing Mr. Thanksgiving Advice Man needed in his life is giving Thanksgiving Advice to those hosting the great American holiday feast.

When I think of Thanksgiving, I often think about the white-haired grandma holding a serving tray in the Rockwell painting, or the one above this column by Jean Leon Gerome Ferris which has nothing to do with real history, but is all about American myth.

That is what this day is all about. The American creation myth.

And if you’re just another Obama style commie bitter about the left having been beaten back by the noble MAGA counter-revolutionaries, please don’t ruin it for everyone else.

And we pray to Almighty God and give thanks for this amazing country He has given to us Americans.

Ours is a real land of milk and honey, with the streets (as my poor immigrant grandfathers thought )were paved with gold. This meant everyone who becomes a citizen has a chance to work hard and realized the great American dream for themselves.

Yet it is also a day when I’m sometimes asked for advice.

For example, what time to open the bar so that all guests, including various liberal nieces and the grumpy conservative uncle get plotzed before dinner?

(noon, if not earlier)

And when to make a video of the family argument?

(Start recording just before the police get there, and make sure you take video of your crazy MAGA Uncle John fighting with the cops, or otherwise you’ve wasted “dramatic tension” of the magic counter revolutionary moment)

And my favorite, justice for turkey skin thieves.

“Mr. Thanksgiving Advice Man, is it justifiable homicide if you kill the guest that you catch hiding in the kitchen, stealing turkey skin? Asking for a friend.” Asked Donalee Westler years ago.

No one should have to feel as if they must “steal” the skin. The host is to blame for lack proper hospitality.

Punishment? 50 lashes or a light slap on the wrist, depending.

And what’s the time to brine?

Now. That’s why I’m posting this on Wednesday. Because some of you are unsure.

As far as brining the bird, I’ve been there and done that, too. Keep it simple with sugar, salt, apple cider vinegar and water. Keep it cold. Brine overnight.

And check out this classic video I made years ago with Wings Meisner at the “paper” before the Jacobins take it down.

Then rinse the bird and put it on a rack in a pan UNCOVERED for at least 8 hours in the fridge (to dry the skin so it’ll get crispy like in the photos) until you’re ready to butter it under the skin and roast.

So yes, you must plan and know how to do simple math.

Thanksgiving is the great American holiday where we gather together to celebrate the creation myth of America.

It’s complicated. It was unfortunate what happened to the indigenous people, but if they hadn’t been moved aside, would we have America today?

No.

But I’m not giving advice about what to serve and how. I’m not some bossy old Greek Martha Stewart.

I told Betty that I was done giving Thanksgiving Day advice and planned instead on waiting it out in my dark red leather and very patriarchal throne recliner next to the fireplace bordered by collected and curated Western Literature, all the while watching the celebration of the Festival of the Concussions on TV.

“We’re going to Pete and Georgia’s house,” said Betty. “No hiding on your chair.”

Ok. I’ll give advice there. They love getting unsolicited advice. I can hear Georgia’s eyes rolling back into her head, and click when I ask in a gentle passive-aggressive tone of voice: “How was the brine?”

I love Thanksgiving at their house. Georgia is a great cook. Thanksgiving there has been a family tradition for decades.

At least I hope they’ll be serving the ultimate Southwest Side delicacy, my favorite, Mrs. Grass Onion Soup Dip Mix with Ruffles chips. Or maybe I’ll just jot it down here, so they’ll see it and perhaps not forget.

A big hoofta of dip, chips and a large scotch and soda and I’m good.

But Mr. Thanksgiving Advice Man needs to relax on this national holiday thanking Donald Trump for driving the lefties crazy.

I love my brother and sister-in-law, but I also love watching the left melt-down on MSNBC.

And I don’t think there would be anything as satisfying as sitting next to Rachel Maddow on Thanksgiving, smirking and doing the Trump dance.

Maybe wondering aloud about who might buy her broken network and mentioning off handedly that Elon Musk might buy it.

“Hey Rache? Elon is going to be your boss, no? Pass the salt and I’ll save some to rub in your wounds, ok?”
Or perhaps just saying “Anyone think that Pam Bondi(future Trump attorney general)  is having a nice holiday?”

And raise a glass to 47 and promise to fight duels with anyone—man or mannish women–who’d refuse to lift a glass to all of us who defeated Jacobin Revolutionary Justice on Nov. 5.

Besides, you already know so much about Thanksgiving without me, which is steeped in important American traditions that we learned in grade school like the authentic “realistic and historically accurate” painting at the top of this column.

Like the great wonders of Manifest Destiny which provided us a country of our own, and the traditional gifts the Indians brought to that First Thanksgiving to keep the starving pilgrims alive.

What did the Indians (with feathers) bring?

Tamales for one thing.

Pocahontas loved Tom Tom Tamales from the Southwest Side of Chicago.

She’d gather them from the famed Tom Tom Tamale & Bakery over by 47^th and Washtenaw.

They’re chock full of tasty including Cornmeal, Beef, Beef Fat, Salt, Spices, Paprika, Natural Flavorings.

The starving Pilgrims were so hungry they ate those hot tamales without blowing on them first, waving their hands in panic like crazy loser Tim Walz, breathing through their mouths, the tamale so hot they burned their tongues.

What else did the Indians bring to the pilgrims?

The great Daisy Brand Hot Dogs and garlicky Prasky.

These partly made up the Bohemian Triangle, a center for encased meats from the Czech-American tribes who missed the first Thanksgiving but made it over for many summer-time barbeques.

The Pilgrims and the Indians especially loved to lightly score the Daisy Brand Hot dogs before putting them over a charcoal grill.

Or smashing some garlic and throwing a sprig of rosemary and adding a tablespoon or two of olive oil into a frying pan with the scored Daisy Brand hot dog.

All the cool Indians did this. And everyone wanted to come to their barbeques, even the Mohawks.

“Epic dogs!!!” said Chief Massasoit. “I love the snap of the natural casing! Delicious!! The Wampanoag love these dogs. But are they for Thanksgiving?”

Not really, Chief, but they sure are tasty.

Pilgrim military leader Miles Standish welcomed the Greek and Italian Indian pilgrims into the fort.

“What manner of foodstuff is this? ”asked Standish.

Pastichio, General Standish!!!

And cold boiled beets smothered in garlic; also spaghetti aglio-e-olio,  and a dish the Calabrian Indians called “Sauseege!!!”

And some Indians had to be asked repeatedly to bring roast turkey. No water-and-salt infused birds (you can’t brine them) but the real thing. Real turkey.

“Mom!!! Do I gotta??” said one brave.

“Your father said bring it.”

“Do I hafta brine it too?”

Yes.

Like I said: Brine simple with hooftas of brown sugar, cold water, salt and apple cider vinegar, or apple juice. And don’t bring Jell-O. Indians hate it.

Someday hundreds of years later, some wise man will bring turkey brining to the American people and take credit, like the guy who barbecued a chicken with a beer can up its behind and then everyone will brine and proclaim the genius of “Mr. Thanksgiving Advice Man.”

Question:

Do Americans of today know who Miles Standish was?

Was he cruel to the Indians?

Or did he do what was necessary to keep the Pilgrims alive and hack out a place for us in the wilderness?

Does anyone care to know?

Do they know Pocahontas was buried in the graveyard at St. George Church, Gravesend, in England?

No?

Oh, OK.

Please pass the pumpkin pie and save me some turkey skin so I don’t have to sneak into the kitchen and risk the wrath of loyal reader Donalee Westler.

And another thing:

Happy Thanksgiving, America.

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About the author: John Kass spent decades as a political writer and news columnist in Chicago working at a major metropolitan newspaper. He is co-host of The Chicago Way podcast. And he just loves his “No Chumbolone” hat, because johnkassnews.com is a “No Chumbolone” Zone where you can always get a cup of common sense.

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