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They say that the average American eats somewhere in the neighborhood of 4500 calories on Thanksgiving.  All I have to say to that is: Amateurs.

Yesterday, the Hubs, the Kid, and I traveled to my brother- and sister-in-law’s for four (five?) courses of awesome.  Having spent the past three weeks staring at a computer screen, typing my nanowrimo novel until I got carpal tunnel syndrome, and slowly losing my eyesight in the process, I was more than happy to sit back and let someone else do the cooking.

Don’t get me wrong; I’m a foodie.  Thanksgiving is my kind of holiday—when family and friends come together and give thanks for all the leftovers we’ll have to eat for the next week.  Some years, I’ve wanted to just chuck dinner and move right on to turkey sandwiches, turkey soup, and turkey a la king.  And I approach brining my bird and mixing up my stuffing the way scientists test particle accelerators.  But getting to 50,026 words in 21 days is no easy feat.  There’s no time—especially as you’re finishing up the last 1800 with the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade on in the background—for brining and basting.  I’m already spent as it is.

So, first, I just want to say how thankful I am for my in-laws and their friends who invited us over and prepared juicy pork pernil and a mustard-rubbed, bacon-wrapped turkey.  Yes, you read all that right.  And I don’t think further description is needed, unless you’re a food fetishist and want me to say it again slooooowly.  (I won’t judge.)  I volunteered to make gravy from the drippings, which, at the time, tasted like the height of decadence.  Today, it feels more like the walk of shame.  No good can come from that kind of blatant, unbelievably tasty gluttony.  I awoke at 3:30am with a sharp pain in my liver—that’s right, my liver—which was probably in agony trying to filter all that fat from my system.

That brings me to the next thing I’m thankful for: Ibuprofen.  Maybe it was the gravy or the sugary pecan pie or the Levain Bakery Chocolate Chip Walnut Cookies, which look more like hockey puck-sized drop biscuits and need to be on everyone’s Bucket List, or laughing at everyone’s stories and jokes or belting out Sinatra’s “My Way” as we cleaned up after dinner (we also crooned and danced to “Strangers in the Night” and Barry White’s “You’re the First, the Last, My Everything”), but I woke up with a monster headache.  I didn’t even have so much as a sip of wine, yet today I feel as hungover as a sorority pledge.

I’d intended for this post to be an update on my NaNoWriMo progress—I crossed the 50,000 word threshold yesterday just before we left the house and was in good spirits for the rest of the day—but I might be a little too worn out to go into detail.  Several friends congratulated me, and one asked, “How bad is it?”  He’s an artist, so I got where he was coming from, but I wasn’t sure if he meant my first draft or the entire experience of writing that much in three weeks.  The draft, I’ll say, is terrible—as a first draft should be—and won’t be seen by anyone else but me.  As for the experience of writing a book?  It was, as someone yesterday described my bacon-wrapped turkey gravy, sublime.

Hope you all had a great Thanksgiving.  Any good recipes you want to share?

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