Cheese-y / Coping mechanisms / Food and recipes / Histrionics

Melatonin PTSD

I know it’s late in the game for a post-Thanksgiving post; you’re all probably so sick of turkey that the following images will send you into a fit of melatonin PTSD. Which is probably a thing. In my defense, I spent my would-be photo downloading time almost finishing with my hurricane Sandy damage control, which means that this Thanksgiving I am most thankful for how wonderful it felt to finally sleep in my bed again last night.

I’d clearly never make it through a deployment. Or a camping trip.

My mom made me censor the event title, because apparently she doesn’t condone foul language outside of rush hour on the 101.

My family had hoped to migrate south to our Florida cousins for Turkey Day, but between hip replacements and black mold discoveries, warmer weather wasn’t in the cards this year. So my mom took full advantage of her stove and my new-found carnivorism by whipping up a batch of her famous challah stuffing. Made from braided Jewish egg bread, AND DECEIT.

Yes, that is a warming pot of fresh turkey liver. And some challah drying out next to the not-at-all-inappropriate Jesus toaster my mom’s friend Barbara got her.

This was also my last Thanksgiving pre-married life, and I was determined to learn how to cook a turkey. Because that seems like something a married person should know how to do.

Within the first 60 seconds of my turkey lesson, I was so vomity from the big flappy turkey carcass that I decided baking animals is not a prerequisite for marriage. A RAW TURKEY IS LIKE A BIG SLIMY SKIN PUPPET. How many years do you think it will take for Jonathan to get used to tofurkey?

Luckily my dad always volunteers to “massacre” the turkey. He waits all year to channel his rage into this day.

Despite failing miserably at keeping my shit together long enough to learn how to make the turkey (seriously…my mom pulled the turkey’s heart out of its butt or something more accurate but just as disgusting, so you can’t really blame me), I still found a way to contribute to the turkey spirit.

My very own turkey cookie army. Brought to you by my mom remembering to buy candy corn before Halloween was over. They look much better than last year’s Mike and Ikes.

My very own turkey cookie army. Brought to you by my mom remembering to buy candy corn before Halloween was over. They look much better than last year’s Mike and Ikes.

I also survived my first experiment with quinoa mac and cheese. The consensus: quinoa does not taste like noodles. It tastes like quinoa. It will take some experimenting to make it something my future kids won’t immediately spit out. Joanna seemed to really like it, though, which I think is 40% because she’s my sister, and 60% because she’s already used to the taste of quinoa.

Speaking of Joanna, she played her Thanksgiving part by keeping the cat away from the turkey. She cooked too, but I only got pictures of her with the cat, so deal with it.

Perhaps my family’s favorite Thanksgiving tradition is getting drunk on an empty stomach while waiting for all the food to finish baking.

I can’t say no to tradition. Which includes the sugar-dipped lemon “chocolate cake” shots.

Jonathan described his Thanksgiving in Afghanistan as “business as usual.” Though he said they got an early dinner, complete with turkey and fixins. But it still makes me feel a little guilty about my over-indulgence during the holiday.

Turkey (which my mom brined this year, and after 10 years as a vegetarian I have to admit was delicious), challa stuffing (I still opted for the casserole dish version, even though I was aware of the liver), mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, the cranberry sauce I slaved over for at least 10 minutes, quinoa mac and cheese, bread from a turkey basket, and a carrot and turnip dish. Not shown: pumpkin black bean curry soup, and candied sweet potatoes. I ate this meal for three straight days of leftovers, and I think I reached nirvana.

Now that it’s the full-fledged start of the holiday season, I’m remembering how difficult the holiday season can be for many people, in many ways. It’s a time when loneliness is heavily accentuated, which is why that myth about suicide rates being higher during the holidays is so believable that I had to consult the CDC before I could believe it wasn’t true.

I’m combating the holiday loneliness by having already thrown myself deeply into my Christmas care package task. Which is code for “I forced my mom to help me bake after I’d successfully burned all the sensation out of my fingertips.” Without revealing too much about how great this care package is going to be, I’ll say that I spent the majority of my paycheck on bubble wrap, and that I’d sell my soul to anyone if it meant I never had to unwrap another candy cane.

0 thoughts on “Melatonin PTSD

  1. Personally, I prefer your turkey army to the real turkey. They’re cuter, taste better, and don’t have hearts coming out of their butts. Honestly, I think it’s a pretty serious design flaw that turkeys can randomly poop their heart out.

  2. Haha your Dad is the sweetest, and I can see how it would take his .005 teaspoons of rage he MIGHT have per day, and save it all up for just one rage-y Turkey carving a year.

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