Hello! I ate my weight in fat and sugar yesterday. Today I shall repent by… going to another Festival of Eating. Ack. People, I do not recommend hiring Otto as your cruise director. I go where he tells me to, and where he takes me always seems to involve a lot of calories. I think he’s trying to fatten me up. I shall have to start poking a chicken bone out of my cage when he asks to see how fat my fingers have gotten.
Anyway, mostly I want to report that flying on Thanksgiving Day is absolutely the way to go. Never in my life have I had a less eventful, more pleasant day of travel. All of my trips henceforth shall start on Thanksgiving. That won’t be restrictive in the least, I’m sure. Oh, well. A small price to pay for having skipped out on serving dinner to the homeless yesterday. Oops.
[Late Wednesday night, I called my pastor to report that I would not, in fact, be available to serve on Thursday, but that I had cooked my assigned dish and would be happy to drop it off. He listened to my excitement over having snagged a cheap ticket and my apology over opting to leave, and then said “Well, it’s good to know your priorities are in order.” Hey, I cooked for the homeless before I jetted off for a weekend of debauchery. Sheesh.]
[Also: debauchery? Hmmm. Yes. So far I’ve had half a glass of wine. But we haven’t played Scrabble yet. I guess we’d better cram in as much wild living as we can, today. Maybe I’ll have a WHOLE glass of wine. Woo!]
Anyway, yes, do fly on Thanksgiving Day. I mean, aside from the discomfort of having to rise several hours before dawn—which, actually, had the benefit of leaving me the only car on the road for most of my trek to the airport—it was lovely. The airport was calm and uncrowded, the staff was pleasant, the plane took off on time and landed early. My kind of travel day.
Heck, I even put my book down on the ticket counter while getting my boarding pass and forgot it was there until I’d gotten through security, and figured now I would be stuck in line again after I retrieved it. But a nice TSA lady let me back out, I got my book, came back through (no line), and other than the annoyance and squick of having to take my shoes off a second time, it was no big deal.
And I got a WHOLE can of soda on the plane. So it was pretty much a banner day.
Otto picked me up and we came back here to finish cooking his contributions to the orphan Thanksgiving we were attending. (Orphans! Yet, no one brought gruel! So confusing.) Then we were off for an afternoon of food, food, and more food.
At one point during the dinner festivities, I was chatting with one of Otto’s fellow faculty members and he exclaimed, “It’s so refreshing to talk to someone who’s not an academic!” (I cannot for the life of me remember what we were talking about. Suffice it to say I’m pretty sure it wasn’t a particularly deep subject matter.) I turned to Otto and said, “I think he just called me dumb.” Because I am smooth that way.
I am a lifelong fan of the sweet potato in all of its various preparations, but someone brought a dish that was… I don’t know, mashed, I think, and then topped with candied pecans. Of course. Because it’s Georgia. And I discovered this dish and after two servings they found me in the kitchen, passed out with my face in the pan. Well, they would’ve if I’d had a little more wine. Turkey, schmerky; I am all about the glazed, sugar-infused pecans. How else can you exceed your monthly allowance of fat and sugar in just a few heavenly bites?
After dinner and socializing we came back home and sat around watching TV and looking at the paper and occasionally remarking on how full we were. It’s like we’re married already! All we need now is a little bit of unabashed ass-scratching.
Today we’re headed out to eat some more with some other folks, later, and until then, passing the time with Otto asking me every fifteen minutes or so if I want to go out and shop the Black Friday sales. He hasn’t tired of my look of horror at the very notion, so he keeps asking.
In other news, some family members reported a skirmish at their family dinner when our wedding was brought up, our right to PLAN OUR OWN WEDDING, OR NOT was defended by one family member (imagine, what a concept), and then some folks who aren’t even directly related to either of us jumped in to agree with the first party, that we HAVE to do such-and-such. What I love is how people feel so entitled to dictate what should arguably be the only day in our whole damn lives which is solely up to us, and also how no one seems to realize that each time this happens, it only cements our decision to elope.
Though if we DO end up having some sort of to-do, I’ve decided to serve nothing but those pecan-crusted sweet potatoes. When everyone slips into a diabetic coma, we’ll be able to slip out the back.