SATIRE: The real meaning of Thanksgiving

Let me just start this article by saying that I didn’t actually eat Thanksgiving dinner. I had every intention to, but I missed it.

Instead, my uncle and I drank beer and smoked cigarettes in his barn as we complained about the government.

This is profound, and not because we’re breaking the establishment of celebrating the death of Native Americans. It’s profound because I’m getting a degree that some would consider useless, while he’s been working since he was 10 years old.

But mostly because I had to explain to my parents why missing dinner was actually a good thing.

You see, my uncle is a farmer. And those McDonald’s commercials all made me believe that farmers are these handsome men in denim and flannels. I thought they wake up before sunrise and carry the world’s food supply on their shoulders all day.

That’s not entirely true. My uncle’s barn has two important components: a garage for fixing tractors and a refrigerator for beers to be enjoyed while fixing tractors. It’s a complex system, he explained. “You wouldn’t get it,” he joked.

And while this may seem like an awful realization about where our food comes from, it’s not the entirety of the truth. My uncle also has a library entirely for the history of the soil, the biggest grain buyers, tractor parts catalogues and a modest collection of Hustler magazines.

He’s a certified mechanic, former city council member and someone I have literally never seen without a mustache.

The fact of the matter is that there’s a definite difference between the two of us. But that didn’t stop us from skipping a family dinner to get drunk in his barn. And I learned something from that.

I learned I entirely trust the people that make our food. We need to keep it in their hands instead of letting corporations like Monsanto screw it up. They run the greatest profession based on profit, not quality. Would you trust a priest to guide your faith if he gets a commission based on whatever God gives you? Suddenly that raise you prayed for doesn’t seem like such divine luck anymore.

I trust these people because they’ve been doing it since they were kids, learning that hard work is a virtue that should be praised more than talent, connections, intelligence, and even prestige. Suddenly President Donald Trump doesn’t seem so great if everywhere he got in life was the product of his father’s work for him.

And I trust them because they know best. They study the land they farm more precisely than I study journalistic techniques. Yeah, let that sink in as you’ve made it this far into the article.

After I talked to my uncle for so long, I finally went inside with a good buzz to eat some of the food he grew. And while I trust him to grow it, I admit what I really wanted at that moment was a double quarter pounder with cheese.