There's Just Gotta Be A Morning After...

Hello, dears! Having fun nursing your post-thanksgiving turkey-induced stupors?

It is tradition in my family to go down to Kinston (only we pronounce it kein-stun) and be embraced in the bosom of our family (or, well, our Kin) while a pig cooks in the grille, and eat Cole slaw (with sugar), marinated bean salad (with sugar), cooked down greens (with sugar) and various "sugarless" deserts (with Splenda).

The day after Thanksgiving, we eat our Turkey, our Cranberry-Onion Compote, our Sweet Potato Casserole with lemon, our stuffing and our dressing, and (O, glory of glories! O most perfect perfection!) the Pumpkin Pie.

Then we watch M*A*S*H, entertain ideas of watching Home for the Holidays, and think about what we ought to do next Thanksgiving.

All that to say, the pilgrims probably didn't know what they were getting us into when they boarded the Mayflower.
But I can think of a dozen Turkey dinners that would mean a lot less without them.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Falling thoughts...

1. One year from today, a nation-wide presidential election will take place, employing all of America's favorite pastimes: bribery, gain of power, prestige, and status, and, of course, Political Scandals. For yea! We must uphold the Noble American Way of Life.

2. It's hunting season.
Again.
Time to thin the Union of Non-Edible Animals, which have grown WAY to big for this town, thanks to the overpopulation of Here, the next China.
And besides, dead animals make lovely Thanksgiving centerpieces. Just think of those conversation-starters, "yeah, so I was driving down the street one day..."
And the terror you shall inspire! "Hey, kids! Guess what were having for dinner this year!"

3. It's time to turn those clocks wacky for an hour, just like we did last year. Unless of course, you live in Arizona or Hawaii. A pox upon thee. You people who live in warm, tropical places know nothing of the cold darkness we poor, semi-northern chaps and chapettes are forced feel for six out of every twelve months. Fie to thee, I cry! May a thousand frosts plague your black coral and bolo ties!

4. I believe that it is a manly instinct brought on by the cold weather that awakens the urge to grow a beard (even though your wife hates facial hair), chop loads of firewood (even though it's 75 out and you've had gas logs since you moved in), and hunt deer (even though you'd only shoot yourself in the foot and scare away the game).
My dad has similar testosterone-induced urges, but they verge on sanity, a fact I attribute to all the estrogen my mum and I produce: wearing flannel, brewing beer, and napping with a wool blanket on Sunday afternoons.