Happy Thanksgiving

There's a lull in the activity here, turkey's done, cooling before cutting; potatoes are boiled and ready for mashing; green beans were steamed and bathed in ice water yesterday, ready for a quick stirfry in some garlic and olive oil; stuffing's done, biscuits set to pop in the oven. Everythings's a go.

Yesterday was a squishy, squooshy, squash day. Two small pumpkins were roasted and mashed for the two pies we whipped up. Too many acorn squashes roasted and mashed for another side dish that I will probably be the only one partaking of. The food will be gone soon, but I don't believe we will ever see the end of the seeds. Darn slippery things ended up everywhere. I just found one in my bathroom, and there's yet another on the floor next to the dishwasher, a spot I have personally cleaned up at least twice since this morning.

This year, I will overcome a giant cooking hurdle, drumstick, er, drumroll please...

Gravy. Giblet gravy.

This was the only part of Thanksgiving my paternal grandmother participated in. It was always perfection. I have never tasted a more heavenly, savory gravy, ever. My mother comes in a distant second, having learned at her mother-in-law's elbow, but is always flustered and complaining about how overly complicated the whole process is. Or maybe it was just because she had her mother-in-law breathing down her neck and must relive the trauma every year. Last night Grammy came to me in a dream and confessed that she had been kidding all those years, "It's really easy, give it a try! I just liked to watch your mother get all nervous and upset!" I should have known, Grammy.

Of course now, Stinky Turkey Mom has showered and dressed, and will be attempting to splash around in a big pan of grease in her nice clean clothes.

This is one of my favorite holidays. Food and television. What an awesome combination. Dinner preparations are well under way during the Macy's Parade broadcast, and we are always reminded how the weather in NYC is inevitably better than the one time we actually got to see the parade in person, standing right on the Nasdaq corner on top of a plywood fruit stand my brother and husband thoughtfully swiped for our viewing pleasure. It was in the teens that day, so windy they were threatening to cancel the balloons, and we were in the shade. These Florida people, what a bunch of crybabies.

It just wouldn't be a real holiday without some live entertainment now, would it? Our special guest this morning is our six year old neighbor, Dalton, who arrived shirtless to show off his new tattoos. They're fake, you always have to look very closely around here, though, but they look authentic. And somehow he and his grandma know exactly where real thugs should wear them: on his neck, forearms, and a giant one that covers most of his back. He came back a few minutes later in his rapper clothes and has been dancing up a storm in our living room. Imagine a cross between Nancy's Sluggo and The Incredibles' Syndrome...

My last Thanksgiving thought, before I go stain myself silly, is that PETA should quit wasting their time harping about the luckless turkeys involved in today's festivities, and should instead turn their attention on a more heinous animal related holiday tradition, The National Dog Show, which has for the last several years been airing immediately after Macy's parade.

Gobble, gobble.