From the New Yorker:
The Cranberry Sauce Has Something to Say
No, trust me, I get it. I’m the cute one. I’m sweet, I’m red, and I plop out of a can. It’s fun. It’s endearing. It’s hilarious.
But enough is enough. My therapist told me to be direct about my feelings—to really engage with them—so before you all dig in and give your thanks, I would like to say a few things that have been on my mind for a while now. Because damn it, I’m a legitimate part of the meal, and it’s about time I was treated as such.
Ahem.
Plainly put, I’m very, very sad. O.K.? Hurt, humiliated, a little fed up maybe. Whatever you want to call it, something clearly isn’t right here, and we—well, I was about to say we all know it, but judging from the looks on all of your faces, I seem to be the only one who thought there was a problem. Am I correct? Wow. All right. Unbelievable.
There goes a whole year spent planning this moment to a T, but you know what—hey, no problemo. Happy to accommodate. I guess it’s my fault for assuming I was anything more than a glorified dipping sauce to you people.
Look, do you think I don’t see what you see? I’m repulsive. I stick out like a sore thumb. A red, wobbly sore thumb. Plopped down on this table with the ridges from my can still branded into my side, othering me, shaming me—your store-bought freak, your high-caloric Hester Prynne. You could at least slice me and give me an ounce of dignity. But no, that’s life, baby. That’s me: Thanksgiving’s Elephant Man. Just the cold, wet afterthought to a piping-hot feast cooked with patience and love. Here to jiggle for you, to be cut with a spoon, and to silently weep.
God, and to think that I spent years in factories and in boxes and on trucks and on shelves all to be paraded out behind your basted, seasoned, and—let’s be honest—pretty overcooked “delicacies.” For what? For this. You know, I deserve some credit for even being a part of this tradition. To say the odds were against me would be putting it mildly. But I earned this. Because guess what? Deep down, I’m good.
And you know what? You’re not. You’re disgusting. The way you people talk, belch, indulge in your orgies of savory fats. What a feast! What a spread! Oh, the turkey looks divine! Did you make this stuffing yourself? These yams, good heavens! Try the sprouts! Who brought the sweet-potato casserole? Well I am not leaving here without that recipe!
And oh, what is that … cranberry sauce?
Heh - spot on! I love the stuff. I do a decent home-made version but always serve both kind as the canned stuff is very much its own perfection...
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