You Don't Need a Punchline, You Need a Casserole Dish

Thanksgiving jokes are like bad stuffing: forced, soggy, and nobody asked for them.

I woke up thinking about the time old Mrs. Henderson marched down to the diner with a turkey that could talk. That bird settled the score over the last slice of pumpkin pie from back in '92, brokered a kind of peace nobody expected, and made more sense doing it than half the jokes I hear people telling at their tables. I am not saying the bar was high. I am saying the bird cleared it.

My boys used to bring jokes home from school lunch. "What smells the best at a Thanksgiving dinner? Your nose!" Dumb as a rock, every last one of them, and they thought they were hilarious. Fine. Laughing at silly things is good for the soul. But it is not an excuse for a sloppy side dish, and it is not a substitute for showing up. I told them more than once: if you cannot make a decent plate, you do not need dessert. You want a workout? Get up and help your mother set the table. That burns calories and builds character, which is two things a knock-knock joke has never done for anyone.

I have seen people prep jokes right alongside the stuffing, and I cannot explain it. Your stuffing is only as good as your bread. You cannot rush a good soak. You should not fill your head with nonsense while your hands need to be working. Last Thanksgiving, young Billy Thompson tried to be the life of the party with some pun about potatoes. I told him straight: if you cannot handle the holiday without a dumb joke propping you up, you are in for a long evening. He looked like a fish that had just reconsidered the hook. He listens better now.

Here is the problem with these jokes. They reach for something they cannot quite grab. You think you are making folks smile, and half the time you are just making them stare at their plates. Why did the turkey cross the road? Because he was sick of your nonsense, that is why. The old spirit that used to haunt the mill by the lake had a way of putting people in their place with nothing but a look. He did not need a punchline. He had a hard truth, and he used it, and people remembered it for years. That is the kind of thing worth bringing to a Thanksgiving table.

Our town has had its share of strange occasions. Remember when the squirrels in the park started wearing little hats and walking upright? We laughed, God help us. It was a sight. But we also knew when to stop laughing and start paying attention. The year the county fair ran nine days longer than it was scheduled and nobody could leave, we found ways to make our own fun. Real fun, the kind that comes from being stuck somewhere with people you either love or have learned to tolerate. Nobody needed a joke written on a napkin. They needed a card game and somebody willing to make more coffee.

Ever since the lake gave the Hendersons' boy back, we have had our fair share of strangeness in Harrow Corners. We take it in stride. We do not explain it and we do not make a spectacle of it. We deal with it and move on. That is the same thing you ought to do with your jokes. Do not force them, do not explain them, and for the love of all that is holy, do not announce that you have one before you tell it. If it lands, fine. If it does not, put your fork down and ask your aunt how she has been. She has been somewhere interesting. I promise you that.

So here is your moral nugget: you want to be funny at Thanksgiving? Be useful. Be a good guest. Be a good son or daughter or neighbor or whoever it is you are supposed to be at that table. Help with the dishes without being asked. Eat what is put in front of you with gratitude and do not make a face. The laughter that comes from a family who is genuinely glad to be together does not need a setup. It just happens. And if you still feel the need to tell a joke, tell a good one. Otherwise, pass the pie and keep your mouth busy with something better.

Warm your hands before you help and your heart before you sit. -- Aunt Dot
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