NeoNativeChefs.com

I've been ordering all kinds of guilty pleasures for Thanksgiving Day: exotic cinnamon from Vietnam, coffee blends from Kenya, breads made with smoked sea salts from France; they're all the rage in Indian Country. I'm bringing a live Amish turkey to the house that I will kill myself before basting him with sage-infused sweet creamery butter made from Guernsey cows. It's modus operandi for the NeoNativeChefs cooking school. We're promoting "back to basics." If you really want to show your tribal family that you're serious about cheffing, slaughter your own animals.

As for me, this holiday season marks the fifth year in a row I have tested positive for lupus. But I always say, "The fuck, I don't have lupus." Actually, I wait until I'm outta earshot of the doctor before spewing profanity. Yesterday, my Pakistani doctor and I strongly disagreed. I'm a new patient of his, as my Cuban rheumatologist left quite suddenly in the middle of last year's exam. I was told he was unexpectedly called away to Butte, Montana. No matter, the Pakistani doc did not go along with my self-diagnosis. In fact, he said, "Listen you, it's lupus, not lupus-lite. You don't know what you are talking about." He and a young Native intern, a quisling, also in the examining room, conferred, then nodded like bobblehead dolls. "Lupus. You can't run, you can't hide." I quickly surmised that the Pakistani doc held a grudge for the sacking of Osama bin Laden's heavily fortified compound next to the Pakistan Military Academy in Abbottabad, Pakistan. Typical. The U.S. military chose not to notify the Pakistani authorities of Operation Geronimo and stormed the roof of bin Laden's house, shot him graveyard dead right between the eyes on May 2, 2011, and then dumped his body into the ocean so the sharks would eat what was left. So long, Geronimo. The military spokesman said on tv that it was a proper Muslim burial. I leaned forward and whispered to Dr. Ahmer that American Indians had nothing to do with Operation Geronimo. I ticked off a few names of warriors killed by agents of the United States: Sitting Bull, Crazy Horse, marble champion Ned Christie, who was accused of every unsolved crime in the Cherokee Nation during the 1890s. Rubbish. The Native intern shot me a cockeyed look and said, "You're free to go home and kill your Amish turkey if it will make you feel better." Still pending are the results of my biopsy that occurred on the same day that the wicked Cruella de Vil, posing as a fashionista-diva-gynecologist, cut a hunk of flesh two inches long from my, uh-hem, in-sides. She said, "Bite on this, Dinosaur!" Then Cruella turned on an electric device that had a thin copper wire vibrating at high speed. She smiled and pointed it at me. The lights in the exam room went dim. You and I will just have to imagine the rest. I passed out. Swear to god, I could barely walk out of the Indian Health Services clinic. My home care instructions just said, "Damnation to the Amish turkey killer!"

Vegans. What to do? My story is completely true, except that my gynecologist isn't as pretty as Cruella de Vil; the fuck I don't have lupus, and I'm hosting Dr. Ahmer for Thanksgiving. He's vegan so I spared the Amish turkey, cooking instead corn, beans, squash, sweet potatoes, wild rice, chocolates, and pecans. All indigenous foods. Go to NeoNativeChefs.com for more.