Fam-Diggity-Damnly
As the fog of family slowly lifts from my apartment (my much better furnished apartment) I am able to better embrace the weekend that was Thanksgiving a la Flauna.
I told the rents (Quack's included) that they could come to Thanksgiving dinner if they brought the table.
Yes, that's right, as fab as the new digs are, they are unfurnished dig. That is until our peeps trailered a tin can full of amenities across the country! Yeah for parents desperate to help their children.
So they showed up with the table, and I supplied the turkey (and an entire menu thanks to the good graces of an outdated copy of Real Simple magazine.)
But wait. Real Simple my ass! I had to keep a notebook by my side the entire time just to make sure what needed chopping was chopped and what needed de-gibletted was de-gibletted.
Thank God the peeps were up for my delegated tasks and before I knew it, I had assigned everyone a side dish. Truly, I couldn't have done it without them.
Quack's primary duties included cleaning up after the messy cooks (he couldn't stop the OCD monster) and keep all the workers in the good graces of one type of alcoholic bevy or another - to which I blame the twice burnt spiced nuts my mom was in charge of.
The first sacrificial burning was the night before the meal, over margaritas. The second burning took place the next morning over Bloody Mary's. Opps! We concluded it was a "bad recipe."
To her credit, my mother single handily arranged and re-arranged my apartment until the over sized furniture we own fit within the walls and doors of the tiny turn-of-the-century frames. She and Dad also bought Quack and I a fab turn-of-the-century, wall-to-wall, antique rug for our dining room. I love it, but the smell makes me think there is a granny hiding somewhere in the house.
As the big meal, and big weekend ended, Quack and I sat out on our front porch and exhaled.
Then, in protest of all things pent-up during a parental visit, we farted until the turkey-bloat subsided.
Whew!