They don’t let you carve turkeys in outer space. You don’t miss it until you can’t do it any more. The prohibition creates the desire.
I spend a lot of time thinking about carving turkeys. I’ve been in space for nearly 2,000 light years. I’ve missed Millennia of family gatherings. You would think I would miss my family, but I can barely even remember them. I do remember carving a golden brown turkey with my dad. I can feel the give of the turkey’s almost crispy skin as the knife slices perfectly into the juicy, white flesh of the breast meat. The aroma of kosher salt and herbs hits you like … well… the smell of a perfectly roasted turkey. The seasonings and brining you remember were mom’s special touch. But who mom was is a distant memory, sealed away by time and the unending cold of space. Hot roasted bird is the unceasing thought on my mind.
Turkey is somehow the most important thing in the universe. Thanks-fucking-giving turkey will save your ass and bring your soul to the Promised Land.
I’d lick my lips if I could. You don’t miss it until you can’t do it any more. The prohibition creates the desire. Ages of human existence trapped in cryo-freeze and the only thing I want to do is lick my lips and think about carving a holiday bird.
Jesus may have died for my sins, but I found the frozen hell of space on my own.