By Steve Whipple
MethuenLife Writer

Well, it was only a matter of time before I was slapped with a holiday time-out.
Usually hosted at my home, Thanksgiving has been re-routed to another member of the family whose kitchen isn’t wrapped in yellow crime-scene tape.
Me hosting Thanksgiving is like Lawrence High hosting a spelling bee. Comprende?
I can’t recall one particular incident that led to the family holding closed-door sessions to discuss alternatives to Thanksgiving-at-Meathead’s. Rather, a series of cooking mishaps, a disregard for nutrition and ignorance of culinary procedures combined to establish a change of venue this year.
I present a few examples my general confusion.
Kellogg’s is being challenged by nutrition experts who say that eating Cocoa Krispies does not boost immunity as the cereal box claims. As a kid, I persuaded my parents to keep Apple Jacks and Fruit Loops stocked at all times. The proof, I explained over the din of Coyote-Roadrunner antics, was right there in the name. Obviously these yummy, colorful rings were produced from fresh fruit, plucked from the orchards hours before packaging.
The drawback: Our dentist was on speed dial. Nothing like a big old Saturday morning feast of Pop Tarts and Frankenberry immediately followed by an emergency house call by Dr. Stowell, DDS.
On a similar note, the buzz word as of late has been “anti-oxidant.” I don’t yet have a notion what an oxidant is and if it’s even bad for me. Until I hear something conclusive I’m out in front of the anti-anti-oxidant movement. As it is now, my entire diet is an oxidant waiting to happen.
Whatever this “anti-oxidant” stuff is, it’s found in blueberries. Bears eat blueberries by the bushel and rarely find them filling. After consuming an acre or two of blueberries, bears will continue their harvest, gobbling birdfeeders, birds and the humans who feed the birds.
Until the issue is resolved I will compromise by dining on only on the cute, laboratory berries embedded in my Lego waffles I eat by the dozens.
Instant mashed potatoes are a gift from the gods. I don’t know how they get from a hard round vegetable to wispy little flakes of goodness. I don’t know what else is in that pouch. All I know is they’re scrumptious and they can be created in one-tenth of the time as “real” mashed potatoes that require selecting, peeling, boiling, smashing, etc.
My friend Paul describes them as, “the Chia pet of prepared foods. Just add water and voila! You have blossoming, fluffy mashed potatoes.”
While I appreciate the flowery description, I truly dig their hasty prep time and artificial garlic flavor, both of which are frowned upon by my spud-hugging relatives at Thanksgiving.
Don’t like garlic breath?
Not to worry, I have cupboards filled with Certs mints. You know why? Because their commercials jubilantly inform me that Certs contain Retzin. It must be wonderful stuff for them to single out that additive. Does anyone, including government scientists, know what Retzin is? Maybe it’s the main ingredient in rocket fuel. Or embalming fluid.
Yet, after watching a persuasive commercial I’ll lunge from the La-Z-Boy and sprint to my nearest convenience store for a fresh crate of Certs with its magnificent Retzin.
Until a few weeks ago I lived and died by the microwave oven. Convinced that bigger is better, I looked into having my home re-wired with 220 amp to power up a mega-microwave large enough to tenderize a leg of lamb.
What with the Patriots season under way AND a new issue of collectible stamps, I am one busy fellow. I don’t have 2 to 3 minutes to fritter away waiting for microwave popcorn when the Chernobyl 3000 would do the job in 20 seconds.