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Here's my story about what was NOT my Thanksgiving favorite meal.

Way back in the 70s I was invited to spend Thanksgiving with an artist, a childhood friend, to a cabin in the Maine woods owned by Red Grooms, famous for his “Manhattan Ruckus”.

I was living in Manhattan at the time and took Amtrak to Boston to connect with my friends younger sister for the drive to to the Maine woods. Got a late start due to the snow so it was a straight run past Camden with no food stops, just gas.

There were a few feet of snow on the ground, perfect New England Thanksgiving setting. Cozy cabin with wood burning stove and fireplace. Dropped off my offerings, warmed up a bit with some mulled wine before we set off for the dinner hosts cabin near bye.

Another cozy cabin a bit larger but just as warm and inviting. All sat by the fire drinking wine and chatting before dinner. Starving at this point.

Table was set, what looked like large browned turkey breast ruled as the center piece on the large refactory table, steaming bowls of mashed sweet potatoes, squash and home made bread along with condiments filled the rest of the groaning board. Grace was said and the host started carving the centerpiece. I immediately realized that something was dreadfully wrong when I saw him using a large serving spoon on what now suspect “roast”. My fears were realized when the hostess proudly announced that this was largest tofu offering she'd ever made. Well, I manned up without a word and with a warm smile accepted this alien and sacrilegious portion, thinking that at least the sweet potatoes and squash would be well buttered. But no, another disappointment. they were dairy free vegetarians...and damn poor cooks as well. Swallowed as much mush as I could tolerate while pushing the tofu around.

That's when I learned that Labrador retriever also wanted no part of the meal. Had to fake drop some cutlery and quietly wipe up the mess on the floor by my chair, leaving my mounded napkin on the table.

Soon the hostess announced that we should leave room for The Dessert. Hope returned with the prospect of a traditional pumpkin pie, surely that would be edible and tasty. A large handmade pottery pie plate was brought to the table...without the golden orange delight I anticipated. Instead the pie had what appeared to be a sodden gray shirt cardboard, somewhat lop sided, with a strange topography. Ahh, I thought these artists had reproduced a model of their property. But I was deceived yet again. It was the hostess's first attempt at a rye flour pie crust and as all amateur attempts doomed to ignominious failure.

I excused myself to go outside for a smoke, my mind focused on the large axe by the wood pile. Perhaps I could find a nearby moose to slaughter in the wintry night. I suspect the Lab that followed me out had the same hopes. I learned my lesson.

Now I boldly reply to dinner invitations stating that I am an apex carnivorous predator of a religious order that requires quantities of fresh meat, preferably rare or medium rare.

Pay heed to my misfortune lest it happen to you.