My Thanksgiving Day TV Battle

Thanksgiving was going along swimmingly until the time came to determine who was going to watch what on the family’s new, 47-inch flat-screen television. Then things got out of hand fast. The new TV is in the den, which is traditionally under the control of our younger daughter. Actually, “control” in this particular context doesn’t convey the real weight of her authority there. She is the czarina of the space—and not in the Obama administration’s in-charge-but-under-normal-bureaucratic-constraint meaning of the word, either, but rather in the imperial-Russia, absolute-and-unquestioned-authority sense. When she heads into the kitchen to get herself a Diet Coke, for example, the girl has been known to put the picture on hold and take the remote with her, and leave the rest of us sitting there staring at Stacy and Clinton frozen up there on the screen. By now, no one even thinks to object. One time she left for good to go upstairs and start her homework and froze the screen out of sheer habit. It took 20 minutes before any of us realized she wasn’t coming back, and another 10 to come up with a workable plan for retrieving the clicker.

But our daughter was off at school when we got the new TV, and no one had the nerve to call to tell her that change was afoot in her empire. (The plan was that on weeknights, I’d sit in the living room the way I always do and watch my Fox News on the old 42-inch set we have above the fireplace there, but that on weekends I’d move to the den for football and golf viewing in all its 47-inch, enhanced-high-def glory. Mrs. Banks even ducked into and bought a new table lamp there so that it would be easier for me to do the crossword puzzle.)

But, as I say, no one could bring himself to tell the czarina about any of this. So when I planted myself on the couch in the den at 12:27 on Thanksgiving Day and asked her, in as nonchalant a tone as I could muster, if she could please switch to Channel 5, the response brought to mind those images of the bombing of Baghdad at the start of the Iraq War that made everyone understand what “shock and awe” was really all about. Even now, the details of what happened are hazy. For a moment, I recall, there was a stunned silence while my daughter looked at me as if I’d just asked her to burn the house down. Then things got kind of noisy and blurry. The next thing I knew, I was back in the living room sitting in my regular chair switching from Fox News to the game.

I consoled myself that it was not a total loss, however. The living room might have the smaller television. But it is closer to the bar. If that’s the price I have to pay to maintain peace and amity in the household, it’s a sacrifice worth making.

P.S.: Certain readers will be interested to know that we stuck to our more or less on schedule on Thursday. The Bloody Marys started later than planned, but the first beer was opened within 30 seconds or so of the kickoff of the Lions-Packers game. Mrs. Banks and the girls spent most of the day cooking and went easy on the champagne—but by the time cocktail hour rolled around, bourbon on the rocks seemed to be the default choice for everyone. All in all—except for that TV-in-the-den-related contretemps—it was a very enjoyable day. Near the end of it, by the way, I found myself thumbing through one of my cocktail books, and stumbled upon a recipe for pink gin, which I tried and enjoyed, and will likely try again.

Here goes: fill an old-fashioned glass full of ice with gin, preferably Tanqueray. Add 6-8 dashes of Angostura bitters. (That’s the pink part.) I also added a splash of club soda, for fizz. No garnish. Not bad. . . .