Thanksgiving Balls

After ten days of company, fourteen guests for thanksgiving, numerous cases of beer, bottles of wine, of booze, and three different illnesses I have to say without the least bit of irony that I’d rather be sorting Opies.

I know that probably won’t mean much to those of you who have never had the pleasure but let me just say for the record that there is nothing, I mean nothing, in my experience that is more painful, more hopeless, more soul crushing, mind numbing, melancholy and self hateful than sorting Opies.

For the last couple of days I’ve been beating my head against the wall trying to shake loose some way of describing exactly what that experience is like but have come to the conclusion that it is impossible to render in a concise enough form to appear on this blog. To accurately describe its horrors would take an effort like Dante’s Inferno, or Celine’s Journey to the End of the Night. I unfortunately am not in command of those types of literary powers. I’m a fisherman and a cook. A man of simple expressions simply expressed. I mean, I may know how it feels to get kicked in the balls, all guys do right, but I’m not the guy who’s going to be able to finally communicate to a woman what that sensation is really like. And that’s sort of the position I’m in here with this sorting Opies reference. I don’t know how to communicate how bad it really is to somebody who’s never had the experience themselves. I mean, I could say that being at the sorting table is like being Sisyphus, that every time you think you’ve got the table cleared of one mountain of crab another nightmarish peak takes its place and the climb begins again. Or I might want to compare the experience to having back surgery without anesthesia. Or due to the table guy’s proximity to the shit shoot (a hole that opens to the sea where we eject all the small crab and rotten bait) it might be likened to being water boarded with vomit and tiny throwing stars. Whatever comparison I make it will undoubtedly sound like an exaggeration to those who have never been there. Kind of like when my wife has “play” kicked me in the nuts while we’re horsing around and just stands there laughing in disbelief as I writhe on the ground. “Oh come on honey, it can’t hurt that bad, I barely touched you.”

It does hurt that bad, and that’s why it always kind of surprised me that during Opilio season, during these grueling marathons of self-abuse, we would always joke that there was nothing in the world we’d rather be doing than sorting Opies. I don’t know if this was some strange brand of reverse psychology or just another aspect of the masochism that led us all inexorably to this particular profession, but the objects most often targeted in these lampoons were the best, most cherished thoughts of our lives on land. It seems that somehow by pretending to favor sorting Opies over, say, having sex with our wives or girlfriends gave us a kind of criminal pleasure, made us forget for a moment how miserable and inhuman we’d become. We knew it was wrong, that this subversion was like saying you’d rather be out stabbing kittens or mutilating yourself with a ball peen hammer, but we couldn’t help it. That was the sort of thing that passed as humor when you’d crossed over into the dark side of Opilio season. It was best just to embrace it. You could always rid yourself of these notions once you returned to civilization. After all they were ridiculous, weren’t they? How could any sane person favor sorting Opies over sex, or booze, or a turkey dinner?

With my prospects of ever embarking on another Opie season fading from view I guess I never imagined I’d hear myself uttering such an absurdity again. But after this last week, this long terrifying week of thanksgiving and its aftermath I have realized that there are some things worse than sorting Opies. Not far worse, but worse enough. Worse enough to make me nostalgic for the Bering Sea in February. Worse enough that I actually kind of miss those fucking little sea spiders we know as Snow Crab.

I guess things wouldn’t have been all that bad if I hadn’t started out the whole ordeal with a severe cold. I missed the god damn Marine Expo because of that cold and then bam, before I even had a chance to convalesce my in-laws were on top of me and then more company, and then more. I felt dog piled. I mean, each of these folks separately and in small doses would have probably had a medicinal effect on me, but all at once it was like poison. My mind and body were overwhelmed. I had this huge meal to cook, all these arrangements to attend to, socializing, schmoozing, boozing and all without losing the one thing I am most apt to lose while in the kitchen, my temper.


My wife was a real trooper. She knew I was being a prick but graciously gave me space and let me rush around the kitchen like I was saving pictures from a house fire. She and several other guests kept offering to help but as I was undertaking a well thought out plan I kept not-so-gently rebuffing them. My wife has always had a problem with my domineering nature in the kitchen. My mouth has never worked all that well while I’m in the middle of something time sensitive and complicated. It used to drive her up the wall when we worked together on a skiff set-netting for Salmon and something would go wrong and there was only a few seconds to fix the problem before things got irreparably worse and I’d just snatch whatever it was out of her hands and take over. She accused me of being a bad teacher because I hadn’t explained to her what to do while it was happening. I’ve never learned verbally, and as a consequence I don’t think I should be expected to teach that way. Watch what I do. Do what I do. Then you’ll be able to do it yourself. Until then, stay the fuck out of my way!

Anyhow, that’s neither here nor there. So I pissed my wife off this Thanksgiving. I’m sorry honey but it was necessary. Despite the bad blood between us the meal came off fantastically. The bird was beautiful. The fish was cooked just right. The crab cakes, though they seemed burnt at first, were crisp and delicious, and all the sides, the hors d’oeuvres, the relish, and gravy (which I will admit I stepped aside on because I have never had the aptitude) were all well timed and perfect.

Once the cooking was done and I announced to our guests that they could proceed to the kitchen to serve themselves buffet style I sank down on our velvet couch and felt like weeping. My Mom happened to be sitting close by and she looked back at me and said with a laugh in her voice, “It’s not as easy as it looks, huh?” I have to admit I felt a tremendous connection to my Mother at that moment, I was choked up, I wanted to fall to my knees and kiss her hand, to praise her for all those countless times she’d pulled together that exact feat. It’s not that easy, not that easy at all. Finally I’d been kicked in my Thanksgiving balls like she’d been kicked for all those years.

I know that prior to the meal a Thanksgiving toast was raised in my honor and that I in turn gave a toast to our guests, but the real dedication I think should have gone to my Mother, and to all Mothers for their tireless service and sacrifice during the holiday seasons. I’m happy to know that even though my Mom brought two hors d’oeuvres, a pea salad and dozens of cranberry muffins, she finally got to sit during a Thanksgiving gathering and actually enjoy the company. I guess that’s what I’m most thankful for this Thanksgiving.

Next on my list would have to be the fact that no one but me ate any of the left over Oyster dressing on Friday.

I knew going into this that it was only a matter of time before the cruel irony of naming myself The Deadliest Chef came back to haunt me, and that really, as a fishermen, it was foolish of me to tempt fate by slapping it so cavalierly in the face. I’m just glad that of all the nightmares I’ve been having about the consequences of this action the one least destructive to those around me was the one that actually struck. And I guess the fact that it was shellfish was a suiting punishment. But why dear god did it have to be on Friday? Wasn’t the crippling hang-over enough. Hadn’t I suffered bravely through my illness and in-laws? Now to smite me with such cruel disproportion! I just don’t know what to say.

All personal suffering aside I guess I should at least give you a word of warning. If you ever make oyster dressing (it’s the one in the blue ceramic dish) for god sakes refrigerate it immediately after it’s served. Don’t let it sit out half the afternoon and then the whole evening while you pick at the other leftovers. Don’t put it off so you can retire to the deck to smoke cigars, drink wine and scotch whiskey. Don’t ignore this smorgasbord of bacteria while you go gallivanting off to the store for more booze and smokes and lottery tickets. And for god sakes don’t break out the tequila and open some champagne before, as an afterthought, stoned out of your mind, you start cobbling together Tupperware to put away these crusty remains. If you’re going to do all that you need to just say fuck everything with fish or raw egg in it. Believe me you can’t trust your wife, who doesn’t even eat shellfish, when she says it’ll all be fine, that germs make you stronger. Remember she’s as drunk as you are and that even though she holds a Washington State food handlers card that does not make her a fucking Health inspector.

On the other hand, if you’re one of those people who harbors a great deal of gorger’s remorse after a huge feast you might just want to puke and shit yourself silly for two days following the holiday. I guarantee that on the Red Tide Diet Plan you will lose all those unwanted pounds. You won’t even want to eat solid food for several days afterwards. You’ll go back to work looking trim and pale, the envy of the office. While you’re co-workers are boring new holes in the end of their belts you’ll be delirious, floating out of your chair, your spirit lifting you as it tries to escape your body. It may not be the safest way to lose weight, but if it doesn’t kill you it certainly is effective.

On a closing note I have to say that despite e. coli, and in-laws, and lingering guests I have not thrown in the towel. In fact, given enough distance from the actual event I’ll probably tell people that it was fun. We fishermen are sick like that. No matter what misery we may face or how bad we piss and moan about it, we’re more than likely going to say we enjoyed the experience and would do it again once it’s over. I can’t figure it. And maybe I shouldn’t. Maybe I should just be glad that come November next year I’ll be sending out those invitations all over again, ready and willing to face another massacre.

Bring on those Opies. I’m ready.