We’re having brisket instead of turkey  as a way to meld Jewish and American traditions (mostly, I am tired of having three people compete for only two turkey legs).  And besides the turkey legs, no one in our family really likes turkey.

Then what, you ask, will we eat for days after?  You mean, what will we do without having dried out turkey between two slices of bread to eat for a week?  hmmm.  A puzzlement.  How are we going to honor that post-Thanksgiving tradition?  A friend suggested turkey pastrami.  Brilliant. 

So, the Jewish descendants of pilgrims (the ones that came in through Ellis Island) will celebrate with brisket and turkey pastrami.  Culturally and gastronomically sensitive and sensible solution.  Some good things do come out of committee.

Lest you think that cooking a brisket is easy, let me share what happened prior to Passover, when POB (partner of blogger) was testing out her brisket recipe on our fathers at our usual Sunday night dinners.  SOB (sister of blogger) was unavailable that night, just when we needed her to referee the melee that ensued.  POB bought an uber-kosher piece of brisket with just the right “marble” enough fat to keep it from drying out.  First, let me say, it was a delicious brisket, notwithstanding what happened next.

Her father started to spit it out because it was too chewy and voiced his displeasure (what ever happened to if you don’t like it, don’t eat it and keep quiet?) and my father, trying to help, said, “[POB] dear, if you slice off the fat . . .. ” as POB’s face was getting red and her eyes are rolling back.  I tried to whisper to my dad that he should stop instructing on the finer points of brisket, but so sure was he that he was bridging the gap between POB and her father so that we could share a kumbaya moment that he continued.  It was a train crash that I could not stop.

Also, it is important to note that while my father thinks he has perfect hearing, it is only because he can’t hear the doctor tell him to get a hearing aid.  So, when I am “whispering to my dad” that is code for screaming at the top of my lungs.  Of course there were only the four of us at the table, because our son has excused himself and gone off to play.  So, everyone could hear everything.

Each day before that Passover seder, POB’s dad called to see if we had reconsidered the brisket.  For Passover, we bought two briskets, one really lean (and tasteless for the Grandpas) and a tender, marbled one for everyone else.  Everyone was happy and there were no plagues befalling anyone.

So, while Thanksgiving isn’t like being in Fallujah, we all wear body armor.