I’m getting ready for Thanksgiving. It’s my husband Andrew’s favorite holiday and he’s agreed to give me all the others if I give him carte blanche for that weekend. It’s a steep price, but I’m pretty sure I come out ahead in the end.
I have a love-hate with the holiday. First, the good part: Andrew’s brother arrives. Morgan is an amazing chef (and conversationalist. Ladies, if you haven’t found a keeper yet…).
That’s not to say that Andrew isn’t. He’s a fantastic cook, and I’m lucky to come home to a warm dinner most nights (and on the others I usually enjoy the leftovers). But there’s really good food, and then there’s…well, Morgan’s food. He probably should have been a chef.
Around Monday I start skipping lunch, hoping that come Thursday I’ll have saved up enough calories to justify participating in the upcoming meal. By Tuesday I’ll doubt that it will happen, and by Wednesday I don’t really care anymore. All I can think about are Morgan’s brined turkey, the stuffing (from a recipe that’s four hundred years old, if you believe the family lore) and Andrew’s indescribable apple pie.
Okay, I know the tradition, but he won’t hold with pumpkin. If you want his reasons be prepared for an earful.
