Thanksgiving is a special holiday when we give thanks for elastic-waistband pants. It also is a time for history appreciation, as we honor the momentous harvest feast shared between the Plymouth colonists and Wampanoag Indians by marching a gigantic Mr. Potato Head balloon down 42nd Street.
To be honest, Thanksgiving has always been my favorite holiday. After all, what could be more fun — or American — than a holiday centered around gorging ourselves until actual gravy oozes from our pores? I am a little bummed that we won’t be flying back to the East Coast this year; this will be only the second time that I’ll have missed Thanksgiving dinner with my parents and my Grandma Kirby, who always makes me feel loved by asking, “Why didn’t you become a lawyer? Now THAT’s a good job.” But given that we will be flying with Miss Skye next month for Christmas, I thought it would be best to minimize baby travel by staying in Los Angeles this Turkey Day. The city’s residents are known for their bountiful Thanksgiving platters — just as the Pilgrims enjoyed many centuries ago — filled with tofurky and sushi.
Thankfully, however, we’re going to be venturing just outside of Los Angeles to my cousin’s house, where she will serve REAL turkey, stuffing, potatoes and pumpkin pie lovingly picked up from the grocery store with her very own hands. Yes! A pre-made dinner! That’s how our family rolls. Saves us precious time and energy better spent with Mr. Candy’s and my thoughtful contribution to the day: a case of Heineken.
To all of my American readers: Have a wonderful, bloated Thanksgiving! And to everybody else, let’s raise a glass and give thanks we’re not turkeys.
Hugs and kisses dipped in cranberry sauce,
Candy
This year I would like give thanks for my daughter's smile. And the Diaper Genie. And iced lattes. And post-maternity Spanx. Amen.
