With this poem Julia Vinograd can easily bring to the table the dynamics in the argument about the ethics of killing and eating what was once alive. But I'd rather do as the Natives did after a kill: thank the animal for their generous sacrifice and be grateful for the food that will feed me and those whom I love.
I’ve never gotten the thing about thanking an animal for the sacrifice because it’s involuntary after all. It wasn’t like the animal chose it so saying thank you always felt to me like taking the piss.
But it certainly raises the ethics and for those conversations to be had, absolutely.
Julia was well-known for her voracious appetite and lack of table manners (the roots of which will be explored in the documentary I'm making about her). One of the film's interviewees offered this poem as an example of Julia's giving nature. To me, this poem feels like a willingness to be dug into the way she digs food herself. As usual, I'm so grateful to the Poetic Outlaws community for the breadth of thoughtful reflections and ruminations all of you share in response to the artists presented in this forum!
When I was lucky enough to live high in the Sacramento Mountains in southern New Mexico I would occasionally take hikes way up in the middle of the aspen nowhere. The best part of it was when these gigantic wild turkeys would come flapping in over my head like some kind of pterodactyl and crash land on tree branches, at first scaring the crap out of me, but leaving me overjoyed to have been near them.
I always find that Spatchcocking a turkey is the best way to thank the bird for his sacrifice--that way all the skin crisps evenly. Also, one of my college summer jobs was working at Swifts, where they processed thousands of seasonal turkeys per day. The Butterball turkey was the most interesting, because it was a fairly common looking carcass, uintil the Butterball lady took a hollow steel fork and jammed it into its breast; hit a foot pedal; and inflated the turkey with (I assume) butter. It was a much larger bird, after that process. BTW, I was the person who stuffed the bag of innards and the neck inside the cavity. You may have sampled my handiwork in the late 1960s...
Not being American, this is kind of how I feel about Christmas, just getting through it for everyone else. Served up and frazzled for everyone else to take a piece of.
With this poem Julia Vinograd can easily bring to the table the dynamics in the argument about the ethics of killing and eating what was once alive. But I'd rather do as the Natives did after a kill: thank the animal for their generous sacrifice and be grateful for the food that will feed me and those whom I love.
I’ve never gotten the thing about thanking an animal for the sacrifice because it’s involuntary after all. It wasn’t like the animal chose it so saying thank you always felt to me like taking the piss.
But it certainly raises the ethics and for those conversations to be had, absolutely.
Julia was well-known for her voracious appetite and lack of table manners (the roots of which will be explored in the documentary I'm making about her). One of the film's interviewees offered this poem as an example of Julia's giving nature. To me, this poem feels like a willingness to be dug into the way she digs food herself. As usual, I'm so grateful to the Poetic Outlaws community for the breadth of thoughtful reflections and ruminations all of you share in response to the artists presented in this forum!
Thanksgiving is a day to remember the native people of America and honour the land they worshipped
It's The Giving Tree in much more gory detail. 10/10
Love it, Noha!
Bless the turkey. Bless the flawed humans. Bless all sentience. Bless animal, vegetable, mineral.
When I was lucky enough to live high in the Sacramento Mountains in southern New Mexico I would occasionally take hikes way up in the middle of the aspen nowhere. The best part of it was when these gigantic wild turkeys would come flapping in over my head like some kind of pterodactyl and crash land on tree branches, at first scaring the crap out of me, but leaving me overjoyed to have been near them.
I always find that Spatchcocking a turkey is the best way to thank the bird for his sacrifice--that way all the skin crisps evenly. Also, one of my college summer jobs was working at Swifts, where they processed thousands of seasonal turkeys per day. The Butterball turkey was the most interesting, because it was a fairly common looking carcass, uintil the Butterball lady took a hollow steel fork and jammed it into its breast; hit a foot pedal; and inflated the turkey with (I assume) butter. It was a much larger bird, after that process. BTW, I was the person who stuffed the bag of innards and the neck inside the cavity. You may have sampled my handiwork in the late 1960s...
Not being American, this is kind of how I feel about Christmas, just getting through it for everyone else. Served up and frazzled for everyone else to take a piece of.
Another great example of how a poet can take you a long way in a few lines. Thank you!
We give thanks to the wild bird!
I can't wait to recite this to the rest of the extended family before our decadent, gluttonous feast!
Turkey, very spiritual sacrifice. Humble voice.