Happy Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving day started early here... at 0005 all hands were mustered to take on food stores while we were at anchor... Seriously, at midnight? Naturally, it started to pour out, too, so the cardboard boxes didn't fare too well. I foresee a run on flour and rice, too, in the near future. Not much we could do there. Anyhow, it went pretty well. No turducken sightings, either, which brings me to my next point:

I received my first ever piece of hate mail!

Of all the offensive things I've said here in the past few years, it was the turducken-inspired comments that made me famous. I'm a victim of my own poor writing skills again, though, because things got taken a little out of context after I went overboard goofing on southern cooking. Look, what is northern cooking? With the exception of all things Italian-American, there is no northern cooking. Has anyone ever heard of an Irish Iron Chef? No. And lord knows, the WASP's can't cook. Have you ever tried Yorkshire Pudding? If someone approached me and said that northern cooking was awful, my response would be "Uh huh. I know."
The fact is, people down south unwittingly insult northerners all the time, for our reservation towards strangers and rampant desire for privacy. Believe me, when a stranger starts asking personal questions without invitation, it makes me uncomfortable. My idea of a personal question is a long way from that of my southern co-workers, but one gets used to cultural differences when one is a tankerman, and, well, you have to have a thick skin to work in any outdoor job, of course.

Anyhow, I struck a painful chord with someone, perhaps the written equivalent of the controversial Brown Note. It's difficult for me to consider than anyone would 1) take me seriously, and 2) be offended by my indulgence in one of the most harmless stereotypes extant regarding any aspect of Americana. I suppose that a certain amount of pride is at stake, and my own ethnic group takes no pride in their cooking, naturally.

I'm going to consider changing my blog to invitation-only, which will mean that I would be able to control who gets to have a peep down the drawers of my mind. If I go this route, please sign up. The note that I got may or may not have crossed a line, but I don't like my blog being used for anything but entertainmant and communication with friends and family.
So, seriously, Dear New Writer, I promise to try to not write anything which you would find objective in any sort of professional or private capacity, from here out. In return, please stop reading. Also, I apologize if you were offended. Wasn't my goal... I'm a one-trick pony, anyhow. If I'm not talking about commercial fishing, economic theory, biology or something related to being a sailor, I'm writing about something personal, and, please, leave me my privacy, or, at the least, use my private email. Gracias, and happy holidays to you and yours.

Anyways, I'm going to have to be more careful about shooting my mouth off, I guess. I'd rather make people laugh than frown.


Quarare: Turkey/ham, or Turducken? Which would you prefer, and more importantly, have you tried both?


Anyhow, in Merchant Marine fashion, Thanksgiving Dinner will be eaten while we're maneuvering to our dock, and supper will be eaten later, while we're pumping cargo. Not so restful, but still, hey it's what's for dinner.
If you'll excuse, me, there's about 2 pounds of Thanksgiving turkey with my name on it. The food coma will have to wait. It's going to be about a week before I can sleep uninterrupted.

Happy Thanksgiving to you! Hope you got to be with your loved ones, and if one of your loved ones happens to be one of mine, too, ask 'em to make sure my truck is OK. And my family, too, I guess.

Seriously, don't show that last one to my wife. I hate sleeping on the couch, and it was just a joke. But please check on my truck.