The next time Congress decides to hold impeachment hearings, I strongly urge it not be done around an approaching holiday.
Since Democrat Adam Schiff banged his gavel to let Congress, and the American people, decide whether our president’s conduct merits removal, impeachment has become the primary topic of conversation everywhere from diners to locker rooms to family gatherings. During a recent business trip to Austria, Europeans from multiple countries wanted only to discuss “Mr. Trump” with me, whereas I wanted to talk about anything else.
I futilely attempted to steer the conversation toward Swiss chocolate, French wine, how to instantly recognize the difference between a 1 Euro and a 2 Euro coin, anything that didn’t involve the hearings, only to eventually shrug my shoulders and say, “I guess we’ll see how it plays out.”
In this country, “impeach” has become the verb of choice for anything that upsets us. A friend, recounting a story about how someone had cut him off in traffic, ended the tale by saying, “That guy should be impeached.”
Which is why, as I prepare to cook and carve a turkey for numerous relatives this Thanksgiving, I worry that any flaw might be interpreted as impeachable conduct, punishable by removal from the kitchen on future holidays.
I will slave vigorously for several hours washing, dressing and stuffing the bird; I will insert a thermometer and check the temperature continuously as the turkey roasts while everybody else watches football; finally, I will heap portions of white and dark meat on everyone’s plates, lead my guests in prayer, and then deliver my opening statement:
“Does everything taste OK?”
Let the impeachment hearings begin.
“Before I eat this turkey, Greg, I have one question. Did you coat it with butter or margarine?”
“I used margarine, Aunt Ruth. I know your diet prohibits you from eating butter.”
“Yes, but anyone actually SEE you using margarine? I didn’t and I don’t think anyone else at this table did. Your statement is, in my opinion, hearsay.”
“Fine, don’t eat the turkey. Have some mashed potatoes.”
“I have a question about those mashed potatoes, Greg.”
“Uh, Mom, it’s Chef Greg, please.”
“Chef Greg, are these mashed potatoes from a box or did you make them from scratch?”
“From scratch, Mom.”
“I see. And did you use a recipe? From somewhere else?”
“If I recall, I Googled, ‘how to make mashed potatoes from scratch.’ A bunch of recipes popped up.”
“And which one did you choose?”
“Mom, I can’t recall.”
“But it’s safe to say you colluded with an outside source for the soul purpose of making mashed potatoes?”
“Uh, yes.”
“Thank you, Chef Greg. I yield the rest of my time to Uncle Paul.”
“Excuse me, distinguished guests. May I have a brief recess in order to consumer copious amounts of wine?”
“Not so fast, Greg.”
“Chef Greg.”
“Of course. I’d like to turn the conversation to dessert. Two weeks ago, I overheard a phone conversation between my wife, your Aunt Jane for the record, and someone in a very loud voice. That voice, which I can say with certainty was yours, specifically stated there would be pecan AND pumpkin pie at these festivities.”
“I’m sorry Uncle Paul, what is your question?”
“I don’t see any pecan pie on the dessert table. What else have you lied about regarding this dinner?”
“I didn’t lie, Uncle Paul. I just didn’t think Aunt Jane needed to be in the chain of command regarding the final dessert selections.”
“Did you share your final selections with anyone else?”
“Yes, one person. But I don’t feel it would be in the best interest of this family to reveal his or her identity.”
“He shared it with mom!”
“Thanks for outing the whistleblower. There will be no more outbursts from the kids’ table.”
“Excuse me.”
“Yes, Grandma Irene?”
“Can we just eat and let everyone draw their own conclusions about this dinner? Thank you. My time’s about up.”
“You’ve been saying that for years, Grandma. Even when you’re not referring to a meal.”
Happy Thanksgiving, everyone. May your dinner not turn into a partisan witch hunt.
