Column: My awesome Thanksgiving column

 Dear readers,

Thanksgiving is the quintessential American holiday, a Norman Rockwell painting come to life. Over the river and through the woods to grandma’s house we go.

The old people odor of moth balls and liniment is magically replaced by the smells of turkey, sweet potatoes, and nostalgia. It is the one day of the year when you don’t have to go to Disneyland to enjoy a giant drumstick. 

Thanksgiving is coming Thursday. I was working on this awesome Thanksgiving column, when I took a break to make some Thanksgiving decorations.

I made myself a pilgrim hat out of construction paper and just finished coloring the turkey drawn by tracing my hand when I suddenly realized that I couldn’t remember where I put my “Alice’s Restaurant” L.P.

It just won’t be Thanksgiving without putting that record on the Hi Fi. 

I just can’t concentrate on writing the rest of my awesome Thanksgiving column not knowing if I will find my L.P. before Thursday.

While I’m looking, I’ll just let one of the A.I. cyborgs living in the ether write the rest of my column.

I know that using artificial intelligence might be viewed as cheating by some of you loyal readers. However, I have instructed the robot to review past columns and write in my voice.

Besides, I’m not turning this in for a grade.

Note: the balance of this column was written by A.I.

 A View From My Schwinn: A Hatchet, a Hashtag, and a Whole Lotta Giblets

Well, friends, it’s that time of year again. The big Christmas tree has replaced the Joseph Fountain on the Public Square and Christmas sales have begun.

If you’re feeling a little Thanksgiving angst, you’re not alone. Between the Pilgrim hats, the giblet bag mystery, and Uncle Tony’s vinyl collection, it’s enough to make you want to hide in the root cellar with Dorothy Gale.

Let’s start at the beginning — with a hatchet. Forget the Pampered Chef solutions; sometimes you just need old-fashioned steel.

That frozen turkey from Walmart isn’t going to de-giblet itself. And what are giblets, anyway?

Distant cousins of the gizzard?

A secret poultry organ society?

All I know is, someone had to take off the turkey’s head so we could enjoy a drumstick the size of a caveman’s club — the kind you only see at Disneyland, where people wander around gnawing on them like they’re in a Renaissance Fair gone rogue.

Then there’s the history. Ah, yes — the Pilgrims and the Wampanoag sitting down for a three-day feast. If you can’t imagine spending 72 hours with your in-laws, consider how the Wampanoag felt after having the continent to themselves for 10,000 years.

The Pilgrims smoothed things over with a cornucopia centerpiece and a promise to name a future NFL team after their hosts. A promise kept, until Washington renamed the team the Commanders. 

Maybe Trump will get that fixed. But let’s be honest — the Wampanoag got the last laugh when the Washington Redskins beat the Dallas Cowboys 41-16 back in 2020. Some traditions, like cranberry sauce, that when plated still looks like the can it came in, are meant to be preserved.

Now for the modern host facing new challenges. Maybe you’ve got college kids coming home, and you’re worried you’ll seem, well, square. Fear not. Just start a few sentences with “hashtag.”

Hashtag-gravy-drippings.

Hashtag-uncle-Tony-fell-asleep-again.

See? You’re already trending.

And about those sweet potatoes: Must you choose between marshmallows and peace?

Team Schwinn says no. Make two dishes. Keep everyone happy — even Uncle Creepy and his wife. After all, what’s Thanksgiving without a little awkwardness to post on Facebook later?

So as you gather around the table — tracing turkey hands in your mind, breathing in the holy trinity of turkey, nostalgia, and Arlo Guthrie — remember this: Thanksgiving isn’t about perfection. It’s about surviving the hatchet, embracing the giblets, and being thankful you’re not a turkey or a Dallas Cowboys fan.

See you next week — same Schwinn time, same Schwinn channel. When I help Kris write his next awesome column titled, “Leftovers, Relatives, and Regrets: A Post-Turkey Post-Mortem.”