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