This year will mark the first time that I am not in
But being in
Regardless, Brooke and I (and Brooke’s brother who flew down to avoid family with us) will be cooking our own Thanksgiving dinner, the prospect of which is both empowering and terrifying. This is the Super Bowl of dinners. I’ve overcooked plenty of hamburgers while shot gunning beers after a long day’s work, but messing up Thanksgiving dinner is on par with poking your father’s eye out with a tree branch on Christmas Eve. (Trust me, I’ve done it.) What’s more, it’s an insult to food – a commodity that has been so good to me over the years that for me to turn around now and slap it in its dry, overcooked face would be inexcusable.
So everyone, wish me luck. In return when it comes time for me to be thankful about something, I will think of how appreciative I am that my blog’s awesomeness has tricked a bunch of complete strangers into wishing me luck over roasting a bird.
Happy stuffing! (If you know what I mean.)
(I didn’t mean that sexually.)
(Scratch that, take it sexually – turkey sex for all!)
(Not sex with turkeys, though. Gosh, this got weird fast.)