I promise not to print my 3rd grade Thanksgiving poem again this year. Home in Connecticut for the holiday I realized that my mother, God bless her Guster pride, is still using the nappy frayed Guster oven mitt that I gave her in like 1998. Nevermind the cotton poking out of the holes she’s already burned into it — these things weren’t fit for use when they were new. You can put your hand inside one and your hand might feel snugly covered in cloth, but when you’re talking about a single layer between your flesh and the racks inside a 500 degree inferno, things that say “Guster” on them should be immediately discounted as options.
Those mitts are created with certain ends in mind — Profit margins — Meeting year-end merch estimates as stated to investors– Not having to relocate the Guster Sweatshop to a country where child labor abuses are likely to be exposed to the press.
It’s like Completely Disregarding The Well-Being Of Your Hands is a genetic Rosenworcel trait. Like my kid’s bound to grow up and feed chunks of meat to alligators, or — row crew — or something. I half expected mom to remove the mitt and start carving the bird with blistered third-degree-burnt fingers. I half expected to be holding a tube of krazy glue up to her oozing stigmata after the meal.
But her hands were fine, and the turkey was delicious, and my mom would sooner wrap the entire Guster oven mitt in duct tape than use the floral one in the drawer. At least while I’m home.