Thanksgiving means food, and food means Calvin Trillin. Nobody tells the truth like a good Missourah boy:
I suppose I am programmed to expect that sort of result. I was raised by a man who, although he had never tasted coffee in his life, once told me that blindfolded I couldn’t tell the difference between coffee with milk and coffee without milk. It has never occurred to me that the software drummers who are in the habit of saying to the bartender “J. & B. on the rocks” or “Ketel One with a twist” might actually be able to recognize their favorite booze in a blind tasting. Many years ago, when a friend in England began raising chickens and boasting of the gloriously distinctive taste of their eggs, I secretly replaced the freshly gathered eggs in his larder with eggs from a London supermarket, and I try to remind him at least semi-annually that he raved about the next omelette to come out of the kitchen. In temperament and genes as well as in geographic origin, I’m from the Show Me state.
This article is on wine, which you will probably drink this weekend. For food, here’s Trillin again. Happy Thanksgiving.