Thanksgiving
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"Ugh. I'm stuffed." |
"Me, too." |
"I couldn't eat another thing. Well, maybe a piece of pumpkin pie. A tiny one. Just a sliver." |
"Ooh. That sounds good. Maybe with some ice cream. A small scoop, please." |
"I have to loosen my belt." |
The turkey carcass sits sideways in the roasting pan, forgotten until someone is motivated to wash the humongous pile of dishes teetering in the sink. Ice continues to melt in abandoned glasses of iced, sweet tea, and rings of condensation run together on the Formica counter. I slouch on the sofa between my father-in-law and my husband, both of whom are snoring loudly. Football plays on the television. |
This is the aftermath of two weeks' worth of planning, shopping, cleaning, and decorating. I watched two dozen cooking shows about how to roast the perfect maple syrup turkey, make the perfect cranberry sauce accented with orange zest, and mix the perfect flaky pie crust. I spent hours in at least four different grocery stores trying to find the oyster mushrooms for the dressing and Tasso ham for the green beans. I scrubbed the bathroom floor on my hands and knees like my mother taught me and decorated the front door with Indian corn and multicolored gourds. |
My father-in-law belches in his sleep. |
I hear china clinking. My mother-in-law can't stand it anymore. She has to clean. Feeling guilty, I get up to help her. |
"Sit down, sit down," she says. "I'll get this." |
I smile and say, "I'll help." |
The remains of the bird go into a plastic container, and my stomach rumbles as I anticipate tomorrow's turkey chowder. |
What are you most thankful for and why? |
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