Art of the Cornucopia

Thanksgiving is fast approaching, but you don’t have time to dilly-dally about. You have no family, no friends, and nothing to give thanks for, but that won’t stop you from having the best holiday of your life. You see, this year you’ve decided to invest in the greatest of all Turkey Day traditions, the cornucopia. Only one question remains.

What are you gonna stuff in it?

You could follow the tried and tested route (or root, you should say), stuffing all manners of squash and corn and fruit and stuff in there. It must be done that way for a reason, you think. Maybe the cornucopias like it that way. And you do want your cornucopia to be happy. Maybe if your cornucopia was happy, it would make you happy, and you could be happy together. Or perhaps, inspired by the turducken, you wonder whether you might triple the fun. Why stick with one cornucopia, when you could have more? Just jam a second one in there, and then maybe a third for good measure, like little Russian nesting dolls.

Oh hey, Bill, you could call, addressing your neighbor who definitely does not have his life more together than you do. What’s in your cornucopia? Sour grapes? Hahaha. Oh Bill, one cornucopia is such a you thing to do. You may notice that I have six cornucopias, Bill, and they’re all inside of each other.

But wow, you start to think. It took you all these years to work up the nerve to stuff just one cornucopia. Even two seems like too much to handle. The logistics alone... You decide to shelve this plan until you become more adventurous and carefree.

OK, get it together, you shout, slapping your own face to get your damn head in the damn game. Stick to what you know. You take a handful of New England produce and ready yourself at the entrance of your cornucopia. You’re a little nervous. This is your first time stuffing, after all.

Ding, dong.

What was that? Someone at the door? You go through your mental list of people who would stop by to see you right before Thanksgiving. Then you remember that no one’s on that list. That didn’t help. Curious, you put down the fistful of produce, a little relieved that the act has been delayed, and open the door.

Standing on the doorstep is a trio of squash. The one in the back smokes a cigarette with that kind of devil-may-care attitude you’ve always coveted. The front two are bulky, thickly roped, curvy gourds wearing dark sunglasses.

Uh, hello. What do you want?

You find yourself stammering. The muscly squash don’t reply, but they advance menacingly toward you. You panic and try to shut the door, but one throws a vine past the threshold, keeping the door open, and follows you into the house.

Oh god, you should have never tried to mess with squash! Everyone knows they’re fiercely possessive of their own kind. You run back toward the kitchen. You had left a knife on the table, and wonder whether you could fight them off. But before you can reach it you feel them overtake you. It’s too late.

No, no! I was going to stuff some other cornucopias in there! I promise it wasn’t going to be you!

It’s no use, and you’re dragged to the yawning mouth of your precious cornucopia.

The musclesquash pause, and look back at their leader. He’s leaning against your kitchen door, smoking indoors and, dammit, you wonder whether, if you were half the kind of squash he was, you might never have gotten into this mess. He nods, somehow, and they push you into the gaping abyss.

What’s stuffed in your cornucopia?

It’s you.