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For my wife, watching the Macy's Parade on television is the absolute highlight of Thanksgiving Day. Nothing else really matters to her. My efforts to deep-fry the turkey could morph into a re-enactment of D-Day, but so long as she gets to see the parade, she's good.

On Thanksgiving morning she's like a child at Christmas, leaping out of bed at first light. Wearing wool pajamas and slippers that make her feet look as if they were being consumed by ferrets, she paddles off to the kitchen, puts on some strong French roast, and slides a pan of cinnamon buns into the oven. Then, she wraps herself in a blanket and plops onto the sofa, there to await the magic hour. It's all part of the Yankee ritual, no matter that Thanksgivings here in Louisiana are more apt to involve jet skis than snow skis.

It's not long after that I'm out of bed and joining her on the sofa. She leans her head onto my shoulder and sighs, "I can't wait to see Snoopy. It's my favorite balloon of the whole parade."

Personally, I'm indifferent to the Macy's Parade, but still, I want to be a good husband and share this event that is so important to her. And besides, who can sleep when the house is brimming with aromas of coffee and cinnamon?

If anything can make me a fan of the parade, it's cinnamon buns. It's the only time all year that something without the word "lite" makes it onto my wife's shopping list. I just hope the TV network doesn't go and screw this up.

You see, my wife's been getting more and more discouraged over the quality of network coverage. These days, they seem to be showing less of the giant balloons, the floats trimmed in holiday style, the celebrities and the Broadway troupes that she has grown to love. In their place are the talking-head emcees and side-stories. "Why can't they just stop talking already?" she wonders. "I want to see Snoopy!"

I recall one Thanksgiving not long ago, a cold and rainy one where at least the pajamas and blanket didn't seem so out of place. After about 45 minutes of introductory banter about everything from how much helium it takes to fill the balloons to how much waste is generated by the horses, we finally got a glimpse of an actual float, one that happened to be carrying Gladys Knight. My wife's face showed a hint of color, contrasting with the sky outside, as she began to sing "Midnight Train To Georgia."

It didn't take long for an announcer to cut in over the music. "Gladys Knight, also known as the 'Empress of Soul,' has sold millions of records during her illustrious career, and at age 65 she's still going strong. She's won seven Grammy Awards; she's well known for her humanitarian efforts, and her son has a chain of chicken and waffle restaurants that bears her name. We recently visited one of the restaurants and talked to some of the patrons." Cut to a glutinous chap who's seen shaking a drumstick at the camera while he talks.

"I don't care about chicken and waffles!" she cried. "I want to hear the song. And where's Snoopy?"

Eventually, we're returned to the streets of New York City and a high school marching band. "And here's the Charles Cotesworth Pinckney High School marching band, doing their rendition of 'Iron Man.' Let's go now to their hometown of Calhoun Falls, South Carolina, where we had a talk with the school's principal.

My wife kicks her feet, and a ferret slipper goes flying toward the screen. "I don't want to go to South Carolina! And where's Snoopy?"

I try to console her. "I'm sure it'll get better as things move along," I say. "In the meantime, are there any cinnamon buns left?"

Her hopes lifted again as coverage turned to the cast of the Broadway musical Elf. "I love Elf!" my wife sighs.

Of course, it didn't take long for the network to break to yet another side story, this time having to do with the costume designer and her selection of buttons or some such thing.

"Who gives a flying ferret about buttons?" she cries. "And WHERE'S SNOOPY?"

Fortunately, she didn't have long to wait, as the camera returned to show an unmistakable big, white snout float around the corner onto Herald Square.

"Snoopy!" she cheers, hands clapping as she bounces on the edge of the sofa. Then suddenly, the sky outside the widows darken, the rain picks up, and Herald Square is replaced with a message from the satellite receiver - "Complete Loss Of Signal."

I knew this would not be a good day to screw up the turkey.

- Mike McHugh

Mike McHugh's column, "The Dang Yankee," offers a zany view of life in Louisiana from the eyes of a slowly graying northerner who never quite grew up. It appears in The Louisiana JAM, a publication covering Southwest Louisiana and Southeast Texas. He has also contributed stories to the Not Your Mother's Book series by Publishing Syndicate. Read more of Mike's wit at thedangyankee.com.