And so turkey time commences, err, rather commenced but I have been in too much of a food coma to write otherwise. It's been a blustery day out here on the island, warmed only by the ubiquitous smell of roasting turkey. To say that this holiday of all holidays is exhausting is an understatement. First of all, there's all of preparation for the eating: the list making, the pondering on new side dishes (new side dishes? ha! we're traditionalists), the actual grocery shopping which involves battling some very grocery store savvy mommies who are on a mission-and I swear being a soccer mom also entitles you to at least three lines of coke a day, these days, those bitches are lethal, the cooking, and then the most exhausting part of all: the consuming. Phew, am I tired. I ate, I drank, I ate, I drank and now I am ready for bed. But let me just say, as a true dilettante, I do believe I fulfilled my role to the fullest. I appreciated the culinary arts, I tasted that wine with a discerning palette (as in, it had to taste like wine), I gave each pie a willing nibble (ok, let's be honest, a nibble is an understatement) and now I am heading to bed with a belly full of happiness. That's right, I said happiness.
There better be bacon for breakfast. And scrapple (scrapple you ask? that's right, left overs from the sausage factory deep fried in bacon fat. Yes, you should be jealous). And sausage. And you know what? The good thing is I can go to bed in this house of gluttony knowing that there will be all of these things fried up for me in the morning. I'm thankful for Thanksgiving. (And my body is thankful that it's only once a year)
