The closest I’ll ever come to owning a boat is a gravy boat. Honestly, “groovy” is pretty gravy when you think about it. And when you’re the kind of person who likes a river of gravy flowing down the slopes of a mashed-potato mountain, a gravy boat isn’t a luxury item — it’s survival equipment.
At least I’ll never need a life preserver while I’m eating them. A Life Alert, though… that’s another matter entirely. I’ve basically got one foot in the gravy already from the unhealthy amount of starches I put into my body, especially on Thanksgiving. I’m practically pre-dialing the Life Alert number myself by dessert. Never mind that my “turkey” is actually Tofurkey.
After the second helping, I’m basically at the table whispering, “Help me… please.” Between you and me, I find it hard to trust a holiday where the tradition is to overstuff yourself on food invented by people who wore black all the time and called themselves pilgrims. Sounds suspiciously like someone else who wears all black and also has grim right in the name. On second thought, maybe I should wear a life preserver when I’m diving into a boatload of mashed potatoes.
And seriously — what was up with the pilgrims wearing belts on their hats? After one too many Thanksgiving feasts, did their actual belts stop fulfilling their original purpose? All I know is they didn’t sail over here in a gravy boat. No, they took the Mayflower — which, in my mind, made a killer roux for a gravy even the Grim Reaper was dying to try.
Sometimes I wonder: what’s the aristocrat version of a gravy boat? A gravy yacht? I bet that’s nice. I doubt I’ll ever afford one unless I manage to hop aboard the gravy train. But honestly, with all the gravy I’ve guzzled, at this point I’d be lucky to fit my caboose into a pair of stretchy pants.
Maybe what I really need… is a gravy treadmill.