Well, it's 3 days away from Thanksgiving and the beginning of the anxiety-and-despair-with-a-smattering-of-innocent-joy season. Thank goodness I have a wife and children or else I'd probably remain drunken and unwashed until Valentine's Day. And then start all over.
Supervixen wants another table-breaking spread which would be fine if she was doing the cooking. Though I make 95 percent of the meals at home, Thanksgiving dinner is the one meal over which she has total control. "Here, chop this," she'll say. "Stay out
of that." If I try to fiddle with anything, it's "Who's making this, you or me?"
However, this year she's working a double at the airport. So it's just me and the boys. Therefore, I thought I had a good argument for changing the yearly feast from a genetically-modified Butterball to something simple yet just as filling. Something like spaghetti carbonara. Or
lasagna. Perhaps an elaborate breakfast: belgian waffles with sausage, eggs, syrup and strawberries. Shrimp etouffe. Blackened grouper with red beans and rice.
"For Christmas," she said. "Or New Year's." Then, gazing out the kitchen window, "Hmmm. Maybe I'll make three stuffings this year..."
So I will succumb again to the wishes of Supervixen. My job will be to have everything timed perfectly so when she comes breezing in from work we can all sit down to a sumptuous feast and she can regale us with more stories of rude, psychotic airline travellers.
SweetfaceBoy and Vonda MaShone will tell her about the floats and balloons from Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. RunningHammer will eat tiny fistfuls of sweet potatoes and remove his diaper. SweetfaceBoy will kindly state that he does not care for turkey and could he please have some more macaroni and cheese. Vonda MaShone will eat only
gravy. Supervixen will finish her plate and then pick from the boys'. She will glance at me with a contented smile. I will be full in many ways.