As I fill my plate, the odds are stacked against me. Even with the aid of a forgiving waistband, I almost never lick the plate clean at Thanksgiving dinner.
This celebration elevates the average dinner’s protein-vegetable-starch trifecta to an Olympic level. Why settle for one kind of potato when you can have baked, mashed, twice baked, and sweet? Who would eat only green bean casserole when squash can have marshmallows and pecans toasted on top and still be called a vegetable? I don’t know about your house, but at mine, no one asks if I would like dessert; instead I’m invited for a tour of the dessert table as if it’s round two of dinner.
I routinely forego breakfast on Thanksgiving Day. In fact, the big dinner is quite often my only meal of the day. It takes absolutely all my stomach space to fully experience it. I lean back in my chair and eat slowly to maximize the number of bites I can take without risking combustion. It’s just that good.
The dinner table’s lure isn’t solely in the deliciousness of each individual dish; the combinations are what make Thanksgiving magical. Turkey becomes divine with Grandma Herrick’s homemade cranberry relish sparkling in its crystal dish. Gravy seeps its way through the potatoes and stuffing, casting a spell over everything it touches. The total package exceeds expectations, making you unable to put the fork down until you have completely obliterated the idea that you could feel hungry again in the near future.
I’ve usually changed into sweat pants by the time our football team comes on the big screen so my belly can stop crying in pain. I lean back and sigh the big Thanksgiving sigh of utter satisfaction. I am absolutely full, and I go to bed breathing deeply of the amazing smells the house still holds.
Post a Comment
I'd love to hear what you think!