mashed potato time

Mrs. Pincus and I had Thanksgiving dinner at our son's house this year. This has all the makings of an annual tradition, as this is the third consecutive year that we have had the holiday dinner there. As plans were beginning to be made, my son's girlfriend requested mashed potatoes as a side dish. My wife usually takes care of preparing and bringing dessert, but this time she happily volunteered to fulfill the mashed potatoes request, as well.

In past years, mashed potatoes were a cinch. Just pop open a box of instant mashed potatoes — readily available at any and all supermarkets in a variety of brands and flavors (well, all are basically "potato" flavor) —  add in some milk and, after just a few minutes of stirring — voila! — you got yourself some mashed potatoes! However, the request for mashed potatoes came with the stipulation that they be actual, real-live mashed potatoes. Like from actual whole potatoes. So, on our weekend shopping trip to stock up on required items for our Night Before Thanksgiving dessert party (now in its 40th year!), we grabbed a big bag of potatoes. Like actual, from the ground potatoes. And we were going to make us some good old fashioned mashed potatoes. Just like the pilgrims and the pioneers and our mothers made! Those cardboard boxes of  dehydrated flakes would be passed over in favor of the "Real McCoy" or the "Real McPotato," as the case may be.

Now, I will happily admit that I don't know the first thing about cooking. I can make toast — that requires a legitimate kitchen appliance, so, in my opinion, that may count as cooking. But anything that takes place on top of the stove and combines multiple ingredients in some type of pot or pan... well, that's out of my wheelhouse. My lack of cooking skills considered, Mrs. Pincus would be preparing the mashed potatoes for our Thanksgiving dinner. First, she peeled a generous amount of potatoes. Then she put the potatoes in a large pot on top of one of the lit burners on our stove top. (The pot was larger than the one I had previously used to make hard-boiled eggs. Hey! Wait a second! Maybe I do know how to cook.... a little!) To be honest, I got bored. I left the kitchen briefly and missed out on what actually took place with the potatoes and the pot and the flame from the stove. I returned to the kitchen to find my wife working the soft, now-boiled, potatoes in the pot. She asked me to "google" a recipe for mashed potatoes to see what other ingredients were to be added. I said, "Why do you need a recipe? Everything you need to know is right in the name! Mashed potatoes! It's right there!"  She gave me a look as she added a few pats of margarine and a splash or two of almond milk. (The potatoes had to remain vegan-friendly.) She continued chopping and mixing... and  mashing. It looked like fun and something I could probably do without risk of ruining them. 

Our kitchen has a lot of gadgets and implements and such, but, curiously, we do not own a proper "potato masher." Instead, Mrs. P was breaking down the boiled tubers with a metal spatula, using its long blade to cut the bulky potatoes into smaller pieces. And it seemed to be working. Very well, as a matter of fact! I wanted in! I gently took the spatula from my wife's hand and began to mimic the chopping motions I had observed. "Are you sure you want to do this?," Mrs. P asked. "Sure!," I replied with all the confidence of a contestant on Chopped who fancies himself the greatest chef in the world. I continued the task of breaking those big potatoes in to small potato pieces. 

After a long period of time — longer than I expected (a time frame based on nothing in particular) — these mashed potatoes looked like the mashed potatoes I had seen over the years. They looked like the ones my mom made often to please my demanding "meat and potatoes" father. They looked like the ones I never ate but was forced to order in restaurants when my dinner order came with my choice of two vegetables and "French fries" was not an option. Goddamn it! They looked like mashed potatoes!

We began to pack up everything we would need to take to my son's house for Thanksgiving dinner. It was decided that the mashed potatoes would make their debut in the very same pot they were prepared in. This way they could just be heated up on his stove. 

The table was set at my son's house and he was busy in the kitchen making last minute preparations. He brought every component of the meal to the table, except the pot of Pincus-style mashed potatoes, which he left on the store. Everyone would have to scoop them from the pot themselves, as his dining room table was now fully loaded with other items. There was just no room for a giant pot of potatoes. Everyone's plate accommodated a big slice of "turkey," (Three of the four people at dinner were vegetarians, so Tofurky was served as the main course. None of your fucking comments, please.) some homemade cranberry sauce (a Mrs. Pincus specialty), a chunk of pumpkin cornbread (provided by my son's girlfriend) and not one.... not two.... but three kinds of potatoes! That's right! Our first attempt at mashed potatoes faced competition from canned sweet potatoes (not yams! do not call them "yams!") and little roasted fingerlings that I thought, at first glimpse, were mushroom caps.

Everything was great! I even had seconds — an entire duplicate of my first plate. And the mashed potatoes? Well, they were eaten. With little to no fanfare. No one said: "Hey! These are the best mashed potatoes I ever had! And they are mashed so well, too!" They mostly just said: "Please pass the potatoes" because there were so many to pass.

A few years ago, I had a job interview for a position of writing a blog for a pharmaceutical company. I am not now, nor have I even been, a professional writer. But I told them, if given enough information, I think I could write a blog about anything. I told them that I had maintained two personal blogs for over ten years and had written about many topics. At the time of the interview, I had just written a lengthy post about hard-boiled eggs. And now I just wrote nine paragraphs about mashed potatoes. Needless to say, I didn't get that job. 

But I can boil eggs and, now, I can make mashed potatoes.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

once you get started

My first real job in the world of art was in the main office of a local chain of popular ice cream stores. Officially, I was the "art director." In reality, I was the entire art department. I sat in a little cluttered office, churning out ads and signs and displays — all without the aid of computers or the sophisticated printers I have used in more recent employment. After many months of service, I was rewarded with a token of thanks as the holiday season approached. No, it wasn't a bonus check or monetary compensation of any kind. It was big turkey made out of ice cream. The owner of the company was the slimiest, most conniving and deceitful person I had ever met. When he bestowed this misshapen frozen gift to me (with his nicotine-stained hands), it was as though he was handing me a gleaming gold brick — at least that was the impression I got from his wide, nicotine-stained smile.

So, I drove home with that frozen turkey replica on the front seat of my car and soon silently presented it to my wife of just over a year. She frowned. It was the Tuesday before Thanksgiving and we had plans to celebrate the holiday at my in-law's house. My wife's parents keep a strictly Kosher home and — without going into the intricate edicts involved in the observance of kashrut — a meal that includes meat may not be capped off with anything that includes dairy. Period. 

Faced with several pounds of turkey-shaped ice cream and no where to pawn it off, the ever-resourceful Mrs. Pincus hatched a grand idea. ("Hatched!" Ha ha! Get it? — Uh... on with the story.) She decided to use her stellar baking skills to whip up a few supplementary additions to the frozen faux fowl. Then, we'd invite a few folks over to our tiny Northeast apartment to help us consume the whole shebang. This would all go down the night before Thanksgiving and after everyone had eaten dinner at their own homes.

And so, a tradition was born.

Our very first dessert party was an impromptu gathering of a dozen or so family and friends crammed into our narrow townhouse apartment on the night before Thanksgiving 1985. It has become an annual occurrence that has since blossomed into a warm and beloved (by most) affair — bringing together family, extended family,  friends and, in some cases, strangers. The venue has changed to our much larger suburban home, which is able to accommodate more guests more comfortably. But, we haven't missed a single one since that first one in '85.

Over the years, the guest list has expanded and evolved from family and friends to friends of our son to new-found friends, a changing parade of co-workers and — curiously — less family. Also the number of guests has increased considerably. One year, we had nearly 75 people jockeying for even a spot to stand in our living room and dining room. One of my favorite games to play every year is "Who is This in My House?" I like to quietly scan the crowd and pick out a person whom I have never seen in my life, standing in my house, happily shoving a piece of my wife's celebrated pecan pie into their smiling mouth. We have also had guests — unfamiliar with the houses on my street — wander into a neighbor's house, before realizing that they transposed some numbers in my address.

The menu has also evolved. I only worked for the ice cream company for a year, so I never got another frozen, year-end confection for free again. For a few years, we purchased an ice cream turkey elsewhere, until we realized that no-one was eating it and the widening chocolate puddle it was reduced to was spoiling the layout of the rest of the table. It was soon eliminated from the bill of fare. The real draw is my wife's baking, which has rightfully become the centerpiece of the evening. She spends a surprisingly little amount of time preparing an overflowing tableful of delicious bakery-quality treats for our eager guests. After an hours-long trip to the supermarket, where two full shopping carts is not unusual, Mrs. P knocks out dozens of perfectly baked goodies with the impeccable precision of a ballet company — usually in just one day. She has even experimented with recipes — adding new ones and tweaking tried-and-true favorites. While multiple items are in the oven, I have assisted (minimally) in decorating our home, transforming our everyday living space into a close approximation of a 1930s winter season cover of the Saturday Evening Post. Mrs. Pincus lays out the table, the utensils, the decorations — everything — while I stand idly by, like a lunk and marvel at her accomplishments. The evening truly belongs to her.

Of course, over a span of 35 years, we've had our share of mishaps. One year, with a kitchen counter covered with various ingredients and our then-infant son reclining in a baby seat, one of the cabinets just dislodged from the wall, sending its contents — coffee mugs and dishes — crashing into the sink and eventually the floor. Another time, I had assembled our newest addition — a real, two-tier chocolate fountain — incorrectly. When I turned it on, it spewed melted chocolate all over our kitchen like a delicious Mount Vesuvius.

Mrs. Pincus and I are the only two people that have attended the dessert party every  single year. Some longtime guests missed a few years here and there, due to illness, other logistic complications or, sadly, death. Others have been stricken from the guest list for one reason or another, replaced by new friends or newly born-family members. Our son missed the first few because he had not yet been born. But, he was not present at a few during his teenage years, as he attended a conflicting annual dance held by an organization of his contemporaries. A few days prior to last year's party, my brother noted that he had never missed a year. Sadly, due to an emergency within his family, he was forced to skip the 2019 gathering. 

Which brings us to 2020. Goddamn 2020.

Back in the spring, Mrs. P and I mulled over various scenarios that would enable us to continue a decades-long tradition in the time of a global pandemic. We optimistically envisioned this whole thing being over by September, leaving plenty of time to make arrangements in the same manner in which we were accustomed. But as summer became fall, it was clear that COVID-19 wasn't going anywhere and was determined to ruin our tradition. Mrs. P alternately cried and fumed. She was determined to have a "Night Before Thanksgiving" dessert party and inject a bit of normalcy into the near-chaos that this virus wreaked on our lives. The problem was that our house tends to get fairly crowded at the peak of the evening, with guests standing elbow-to-elbow not the least bit unusual. In the time of "social distancing," this was going to be tricky. Mrs. P proposed staggered admission, assigning small circles of guests different arrival times and asking them to leave after a pre-determined period to allow for the next group to safely enter. My wife's older brother (who has chosen to live outside of the day-to-day tedium of family concerns and remains a mysterious entity to even some of our close friends) volunteered to drive all the way in from his remote location to serve as a bouncer. He cheerfully offered to kick people out of our house who have overstayed their allotted timeslot. We passed on his gracious offer.

Together, my wife and I conceived a "Plan B." Taking a page from the current safety practices of the retail business, our "Night Before Thanksgiving" dessert party this year would be a curb-side pick-up version. It was ingenious, if I may compliment ourselves. We sent out electronic invitations including an option to select which type of pie you'd like — pecan or pumpkin. Mrs. P set out to compile a modified menu, featuring only items that would travel unscathed in a take-out container. Then, she bought takeout containers and autumn-themed carry bags. Our excitement grew as affirmative replies began to roll in. Mrs. P kept careful track of  who was coming and which pies they requested. She wrote and rewrote and re-rewrote the menu, refining it until she was satisfied with a good sampling of dessert favorites from past years' parties — sort of a dessert party greatest hits.

The replies we received energized Mrs. Pincus. A lot of the responses were accompanied by a heartfelt message of surprise and gratitude for keeping up a tradition in the midst of a discouraging global situation. On Tuesday, Mrs. Pincus did her usual phenomenal job of turning out hundreds of tempting little morsels from our kitchen's magical oven. Refrigerated items were refrigerated. Other items were left to cool in what looked like an abstract jigsaw puzzle on our dining room table. The morning of the "event," we turned into a two-person assembly line. We filled small take-out tins with pies. Then, we filled larger versions with an assortment of a variety of baked goods — each one slightly different in its contents but no less appetizing. Our dining room looked like the stock area of a commercial bakery with plastic-lidded tins piled in neat little stacks, ready to be distributed to the bags and delivered to its waiting recipient.

At 4 o'clock, the first guest pulled up. It was my father-in-law, who lives around the corner from us. Just like he was keeping a scheduled appointment for a curb-side pickup at a supermarket, he called my wife and explained that he was checking in for his order. We didn't consider creating an app for the evening's procedure, but we played along with my wife's father. Properly masked and insisting he remain in his car, Mrs. P opened the rear passenger door and placed the dessert-filled bag on the seat. My father-in-law waved as he pulled away. And this is how it went for the next three hours. At irregular intervals, friends and family, who otherwise would have gathered around our extended dining room table or clogged accessible walking space in our house, were now parallel parking at our driveway and trying to identify themselves from behind a cotton facemask through a rolled-down window in a car we didn't recognize. A few folks — who shall remain nameless — exited their cars to chat, seeing that no other guests were around. Mrs. P indulged these "violators" in conversation. I, however, was a little more forceful, as I attempted to direct them back into their cars, so as not to encourage others to react similarly. I was gently reprimanded for my actions. Overall, everything worked out smoothly and better than we could have imagined. Several curbside interactions resulted in a few tears shed, as my wife expressed her wholehearted gratitude. The whole experience was pretty emotional, if one were to dwell on it for a bit. The final guest to arrive was our neighbor from across the street who walked over in the dark, traversing our lawn approximately 90 minutes after I had shut off the porch light.

We were very satisfied with the entire evening. It could have been more fuel for the fire of disappointment that has burned through the past nine months. Instead it was a glimmer of hope for what lies ahead in the coming year. This time next year, I hope to be complaining about a house full of unruly people who don't know when it's time to leave.

And be thankful for them, Y'know....just like normal.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

I buried paul

Thanksgiving at my house always included one timeless ritual. After my mom fussed over the turkey, we all took a seat around that long, utility table that was set up in the living room to accommodate the extra dinner guests. One by one, my mother would bring out each component of the meal — the fried onion-topped string bean casserole, the Mrs. Paul's frozen sweet potatoes piping hot from the oven, the big bowl of canned corn, the hot Pillsbury crescent rolls. My dad would rev up the electric carving knife and slice off thin, but crooked slices from the golden-brown turkey breast. The various serving plates would make their way around the table and each guest would load his or her placesetting with a generous portion of Thanksgiving fare. The meal would begin and, invariably, my dad would soon lift the dish containing a glistening cylinder of dark purple jellied cranberry sauce and, after cutting a chunky piece for himself, point the thing in my direction and, just like every year, say those same words to me: "Do you want cranberry sauce?"

Of course, I didn't. I never wanted cranberry sauce. Ever. I'm not quite sure what it was about the cranberry sauce that made it so unappealing. It could have been the fact that it maintained the shape of the can, even after the can had been discarded. It could have been the color — that dark reddish-purple that gave the side dish a somewhat visceral appearance... sort of like an internal organ. I can't vouch for the texture, though, because that stuff wasn't making it anywhere near my mouth. I would always answer my father's inquiry with: "Have you ever seen me eat cranberry sauce? This ain't gonna be the year I start." As the years went on, I believe my father got to the point where he knew I didn't want any cranberry sauce. He was just taunting me.

Look, I know I was a picky eater when I was a kid. But, I got to be more culinarily adventurous as I became an adult. My wife regularly remarks "Your mother would be proud of you." when I swallowed a forkful of string beans or popped a sushi roll into my mouth. Even the baked beans I avoided as a child have become a required accompaniment to hot dogs (well... the veggie hot dogs I now eat).

Last year's Thanksgiving dinner was the best one in recent memory. It was my son, my wife and me gathered around our beautifully-set dining room table. Just the three of us, something we never had the opportunity to experience in our many years as a family. It was lovely. Mrs. P forwent traditional turkey and made a Tofurky for her two vegetarians. She also made from-scratch cranberry sauce that looked more like this...

... than that slimy-looking stuff that slides out of a can. It looked delicious and it tasted delicious. (I was reminded of a favorite episode of All in the Family from 1975. The Bunkers are having Thanksgiving dinner at Mike and Gloria's house next door. Archie asks his daughter for cranberry sauce. Gloria proudly displaying a bowl filled with something that looks like the photo above, says, "Sure, Daddy. I made it myself." Archie frowns and says, "Don'cha have the real kind that slides out of a can?" Disappointed, Gloria exclaims, "Try it!" Archie, still eyeing the bowl with contempt, replies, "I'll have some later on my ice cream.")

So, a few nights ago, Mrs. Pincus made vegetarian hot "turkey" sandwiches. I have fond memories of them from my youth. My mom would often make the real (re: meaty) thing for our family. My dad, a butcher by trade, would never stand for "pretend meat." But, Mrs. P,, while still a carnivore, will partake of "fake" stuff every once in a while. So, we each covered our plates with two pieces of bread and several slices each of LightLife® Smart Deli™ Veggie Turkey Slices. Mrs. P mixed up and heated a pot of Serv-a-Gravy®, the most meatless of gravies available. (It is, essentially, brown water. But, it is delicious brown water!) While, my wife was busy at the stove, I opened up the cabinet in our kitchen where we keep canned goods and perused the options. I found a can of creamed corn, usually reserved for Mrs. P's corn fritters. Hiding behind the corn, between a surplus can of cannellini beans left from the last time my wife made vegetarian chili and a stack of canned salmon, I found a can of Ocean Spray jellied cranberry sauce. I stared at the can for a few moments. Then, I extracted the can from its resting place. "How about we have some of this, too?," I said, waving the can over my shoulder in the direction of my wife standing by the stove. She turned to me and laughed. "Really?," she said, smiling, "Oh, your mother would be so proud of you."

I thought of all the things I have accomplished in my life. I'd like to think that eating cranberry sauce would not be lumped together in the "pride department" with graduating high school, getting married, buying a house and starting a family. But, you know... I'll take it.

And, guess what? That thick plug of jellied cranberry sauce was pretty darn good. I actually look forward to having more on Thanksgiving.

To make up for a lot of missed opportunities.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

(I realize that I wrote about cranberry sauce around this time last year. You can read it here. Although, the story above contains similar elements to the tale of a year ago, I did not consult my previous blog post before I wrote this one. I suppose cranberry sauce has just weighed heavily on me all these years.)

insatiable an appetite, wanna try?

I have very fond memories of Thanksgiving. I remember my mom waking up early on Thanksgiving morning to prepare a giant turkey with her homemade stuffing. After putting the turkey into the oven for a good, long roasting, she'd pop a foil tray of frozen candied sweet potatoes in to keep the turkey company. Then, she'd line up an array of canned vegetables and, one by one, run them under the electric can opener and dump their contents into one of a number of saucepans on the stove. 

Soon, our regular guests would arrive — my aunt and my grandmother. My aunt would hover around the kitchen, offering help to my mother. My mother, of course, had the meal preparation down to a science and politely declined assistance. She made the same meal every year and, at this point, could make it with her eyes closed. My grandmother knew better than to enter my mother's kitchen. Instead, my grandmother would park herself on the sofa opposite my father and complain. About everything. My father would nod and feign interest, devoting more attention to his cigarettes and the televised football game than to his mother's incessant bellyaching.

After what seemed like forever, dinner was finally served. My dad sliced up the golden-brown bird. Side dishes were passed around and plates were filled to overflowing. Then, before a single bite was take, my father would ask me his traditional question.

"Do you want cranberry sauce?," he'd ask, a big, purple, cylindrical blob quivering on the serving plate poised in his hand.

I would frown and shudder at the sight of that unnatural jellied mass. As a youngster, I would merely shake my head. As a teenager with a developing sardonic personality, I would reply accordingly.

That's it —
right next to the flowers.

"Have you ever seen me eat cranberry sauce?," I said one year. Another year, I replied, "I'm trying to keep my 'no cranberry sauce' streak going for another consecutive year." In later years, when I grew tired of acerbic retorts, I would just respond with an annoyed "no." My father, however, never got the message. He still continued to ask the question every year.

Life events — marriage, the deaths of my mother and father, expanding families — altered my Thanksgiving arrangements. After many years of bouncing from relatives' and friends' homes, this year, for the very first time, Thanksgiving dinner was an intimate gathering of three — my wife, my son and me. Just the Pincuses. Mrs. P, outnumbered by vegetarians 2 to 1, graciously conceded to forgo turkey and make a Tofurky® for our holiday dinner. She filled the roasting pan with fresh potatoes, carrots, celery and herbs, creating a base for that softball-sized hunk of faux poultry. With the soy "bird" safely browning in the oven, Mrs. P made her own cranberry sauce. Nope, not that weird "slide out of the can" stuff. She made the real deal, just like the Pilgrims presented to the Native Americans before the post-meal slaughter. 

The table looked beautiful. In addition to the fake turkey (delicious fake turkey, I might add!), it was laden with vegetables, hot-from-the-oven-rolls, gravy and homemade cranberry sauce.  And this year, I decided that my nonsense had gone on too long. I was an adult. I was going to try cranberry sauce. In a scenario reminiscent of my "baked beans" episode, and much to my wife's surprise, I bravely placed a heaping dollop of cranberry sauce on my plate alongside a gravy-covered slice of Tofurky®. At least it looked like food and not a giant, glistening eraser. I scooped up a forkful and raised it to my mouth. Then, I shoveled it home.

It was good. Really good.

I finished my initial small portion and took more. My wife smiled — pleased that I liked her cranberry sauce and pleased that I was finally eating cranberry sauce.

"Your father would be proud.," she said.

Yeah, but he'd probably question me about something else.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

baby, don't you cry, gonna bake a pie

A few evenings ago, Mrs. P and I went shopping as soon as I came home from work. When we returned home after an hour or so, we found this hand-written note (pictured above) lying on the cement step just inside our screen door. On a single sheet of lined notebook paper, torn from its spiral binding, the note was written in the unsteady hand of a teenager. It read:

Hello. My name is

Jin Yu  for from Cheltenham High School

The day before thanksgiving I

I am dropping off yourpies

you ordered on Wed Nov 25

(day before Thanksgiving

Please give me a call

to let me know what time

I should drop the pies off

215 - (phone number)

Thank you &

Happy Thanksgiving

The author was kind enough to offer a pronunciation of his name — Jin You — in parenthesis below the actual spelling of his name.

It took a few reads until we figured out that "yourpies" was actually "your pies." I asked my wife, a phenomenal and proud baker, if she had ordered pies from someone in the neighborhood. Every year, for the past 31, she single-handedly bakes and serves up a huge assortment of goodies from the oven to a houseful of freeloaders guests on the evening before Thanksgiving. So, I already knew the answer before the question left my lips. However, Mrs. P has been known to be charitable and it really wouldn't have surprised me if she ordered a pie from some forlorn young student as a goodwill gesture. Something I would never do in a million years.

Well, we came to the conclusion that she didn't order any pies and we knew that I certainly didn't order any pies. At this point, I would have dropped the issue, but not Mrs. P. She began to contact some surrounding neighbors via text message and Facebook. (Again, something I would never do in a million years.) Within minutes, she received negative replies from all. The mystery had come to a standstill.

The night before Thanksgiving is one day away. Did poor Jin Yu take pie orders from people in a house that looks like mine? Did he forget from whom he took orders? Will Jin Yu possibly be delivering pies to me that I did not order? Or has he figured out his error by now?

Hmm.... I wonder what kind of pies they are and I wonder if Jin Yu will have a happy Thanksgiving. If he gets stuck with those pies, I suppose he will.

www.joshpincusicrying.com

We have our own pies, thank you very much.

potatoes are cheaper

See those big, unusual vegetables piled up and ready for market? Do they look familiar? I didn't think so, because you have probably never seen them before. Those things are called "yams." 

Look at my giant yam!

Yams are part of the species of flowering plants called "monocots." This group of over 59,000 species includes orchids, lilies and tulips, as well as wheat, sugar cane and bamboo. Yams are native to Africa and Asia. They can grow to up to four feet in length and weigh in the neighborhood of 150 pounds. They have a rough skin, which can be difficult to peel and tough white flesh, which softens when cooked. They are rarely sold — or even seen — in the United States.

So, what are those neon orange things surrounded by mini-marshmallows, brown sugar and a boatload of butter that Grandma prepares every Thanksgiving? Um, they're sweet potatoes. I don't care what Grandma says, or what you've been told. They are sweet potatoes.

Sweet potatoes aren't even in the same plant family as yams. Sweet potatoes are related to the morning glory and the popular Asian vegetable water spinach (not actually spinach) and come from the plant species of "dicots," as opposed to "monocots."* The oranges ones, the yellow ones, as well as the exotic purple ones — they are sweet potatoes, too. Hell, sweet potatoes are only distantly related to other varieties of potatoes. 

Bruce doesn't know
what he's talking about.

When did the confusion start? When slaves from Africa were brought to the United States, they called the misshapen potato with the orange flesh "yams" because they resembled the true yams from their native land, though much smaller. Over the years, the name stuck. In order to reinforce "truth in advertising," The U.S. Department of Agriculture requires that commercially grown and marketed sweet potatoes labeled with the term "yam" must also be accompanied by the term "sweet potato."

This week, when you are filling your shopping cart with all the fixings for a traditional Thanksgiving feast, know that those things that you're passing off to your family as "yams," are nothing more than sweet potatoes. No matter what you or the signs in the produce section or even Bruce® says. They ain't yams.

Good luck trying to convince Grandma, though.

* If you are really interested, you can read more about dicots and monocots here. Or you can invite a botanist to Thanksgiving dinner.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

everyday stupefaction

Are we really this dumb? Have we really become a society of unthinking, illogical idiots? 

The graphic above is part of the latest online outrage (of undetermined origin). This one instructs a nation of blind followers to emblazon their Facebook pages with the promise not to shop on Thanksgiving, obviously newly-designated as the holiest and most sacred of all holidays. People who silently stand up for an ill-conceived "cause" such as this one are selfish and inconsiderate.

Shit like this infuriates me. (In all fairness, a lot of things infuriate me. I am not the barometer upon which anger for the actions of my fellow man should be measured.) If you don't want to shop on Thanksgiving, then don't. Just plain "don't!" But, if you do wish to shop on Thanksgiving, by all means, shop! And don't let anyone guilt you into feeling that you are doing something wrong. The country (this one, the one that you love and will defend to the ends of the earth) is slowly recovering from a crippling recession, in case you have been under a rock for the past six years. Getting the population to spend money increases production of goods and strengthens the economy on many levels.

It costs a lot of money to operate a store. Heat, electricity, refrigeration, cleaning staff - it all costs. If stores didn't think customers would show up, they wouldn't bother to open. Also, retail businesses do not force anyone to work when they don't want to. No one threatens anyone. As a matter of fact, a lot of retail stores offer extra pay incentives to employees who wish to work on Thanksgiving. Some stores even treat their employees to a full Thanksgiving dinner as a bonus.

There are a lot of people who need their jobs to support a family and survive. They choose to work whenever they can. Perhaps they are the only one in their household who has a job. Perhaps they are trying to better themselves and need the money to pay for education or student loans. Holiday hours offer double or even triple time and that money is very important to some people.

There are some people who do not have families. The closest thing they have is their co-workers. A job is the only social life that some folks have. There are even some people — believe it or not — that don't celebrate Thanksgiving. That's right, you narrow-minded, self-righteous, insensitive bastard, Thanksgiving is just another Thursday to go to work for some people. Maybe not you, but it's not all about you... is it?

So, let those who want to shop shop and let those who want to spend time with their families make their own decisions. And you can get back to your yearly complaining about retailers displaying Christmas decorations three weeks before Halloween. That's always a good fight.

* * * * * UPDATE * * * * *

This is bullshit and K-Mart should be ashamed of themselves. Between the ridiculously cheap prices at Walmart and the clever marketing of Target, there is no room for K-Mart in the retail business. I hope this is their last holiday season.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

there's no place like home for the holidays

I'm not a big "holiday" person. I don't hate the holidays, I just don't get caught up in the harried, plan-making and obligatory get-togethering that normally comes with end-of-year festivities. My wife — who loves that kind of stuff — usually makes the arrangements and I just accompany her (sort of like an attentive puppy or a clothing accessory).

For the past several years, we have been invited to Thanksgiving dinner at my wife's brother's house. He lives just outside of Atlantic City, so given Mrs. P's affinity for casino games, it was like a bonus. My brother-in-law would go all out, proudly reigning over his kitchen, preparing and checking and orchestrating a lavish vegetarian Thanksgiving dinner. Soup, salad, rolls, fresh vegetables were served, as well as the crowning glory of any traditional vegetarian Thanksgiving meal - the tofurky (a softball-sized pre-fabricated mass of tofu, spices and seasoning stuffed with a savory, rice-y mixture). It is way better than it looks, though hardly a substitute for real poultry. My wife (not a vegetarian) would happily forgo actual turkey flesh and join the rest of the herbivores, because my brother-in-law's feast was just that good.

Sometime in October of this year, my mother-in-law told my wife that she received an invitation for Thanksgiving from Crissy, my brother-in-law's spouse. While very nice, Crissy is a wee bit on the — shall we say — "quirky" side. My mother-in-law had to decline the invite. She and my father-in-law planned to spend time with GG (my wife's 102-year-old grandmother) at the assisted-living facility where she resides. Afterwards, they would return home and have a quiet turkey dinner for two.

My wife speaks with Crissy regularly, talking about work and life and our children (their 4 year-old and our 25 year-old)  — but no mention of Thanksgiving ever crept into recent conversation.

Three days before Thanksgiving, my brother-in-law called and my wife answered the phone.

"Hey!," he began, "Are we going to see you on Thanksgiving?"

"Thanksgiving?," she replied, "No, we weren't invited."

He laughed. "No, really. Are you guys coming?"

Again, my wife repeated, "We weren't invited. I'm not angry or anything. We just didn't get an invitation."

Suddenly the sound from the phone became muffled. My brother-in-law had slid a hand over the mouthpiece. Mrs. P heard the garbled noises of a barely audible side conversation. She was, however, able to make out a few words — "invite" "sister" and "dinner" were some of them. The audio returned to normal and my brother-in-law said, "Well, okay, happy Thanksgiving." and he hung up.

We're having Thanksgiving dinner this year with my wife's parents.

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