My eyes are stinging right now. Can you say ‘How many onions would a onionchuck chop if a onionchuck could chop onions?’? I can’t. I might have had a beer or two while chopping. Six onions, but who is counting?

Thanksgiving requires chopping onions. Onions might be more essential to my Thanksgiving than turkey.

Let me think about that. Turkey is pretty dang important. But nearly everything I prepare for the holiday meal has onions in it. The turkey has one shove one right up the gobbler’s gut right before it goes in the oven. My essential according to my children killer cheese potatoes has one small very finely chopped onion in it. My daughter, who lives in Turkey and is having turkey, messaged me to ask for the recipe earlier this week. Grandma Slagle’s awesome wet turkey dressing says ‘brown lots of onions in a large amount of butter’. To me, that translates to five onions and a olympic sized pool equivalent of drippings and chicken broth.

I like being the chef. Tomorrow, the killer potatoes go in the oven early, while I prep the turkey. I whisper sweet nothings to the bird while I rub it gently with garlic and olive oil, then place it in a floured bag to roast. I loudly cackle with evil as I insert the turkey in the hot oven. Then I toast two loaves of cheap bread, tear the toasted bread up and toss it with enormous amounts of ground black pepper. It waits for the drippings and broth while the naked bird bastes itself in the oven.

Thanksgiving almost didn’t happen this year for my family. Dad is 80, so we decided to forego the family get together. Last week, I developed a nagging headache that lasted into the weekend. It was likely sinus related, with no other symptoms besides the headache, but my girlfriend decided that maybe it was best that I quarantine. She changed her mind today, especially since rumors of my chefly prowess have drifted her way. It’s nothing new to her. I cook for her nearly every week.

I called my youngest brother earlier this evening, used my speaker on my phone since I was performing Thanksgiving prepped. He answered using his speakerphone as well, since his wife and young son were prepping their Thanksgiving meal together. Paul is a smoked meat expert, but he told me that this year he is not smoking the turkey, elected to brine and roast the turkey instead. His wife pointed out to me something that is probably true — when men cook, they always cook the fancy meal and put more into it than the wife does. Why? Men don’t cook as often. Women, if they are in a traditional household, cook every day and don’t put as much into it by necessity. My brother Paul, took four hours to prep and cook a meal the other day! In his defense every dish I have tasted of his has been outstanding.

I’m ready. Let the feasting begin!