Embrace the Stretchy Pants


It’s almost here, folks.

The most magical time of the year where dreams come true. Where fantasies come alive and everything is good in your life. Where Grandmas get drunk, kids pass out, and alcohol-induced rants by your Uncle Bob make fireside chat for years to come.

No, this isn’t about Christmas/Chanukah/Mawlid an Nabi/Yule/whichever religion or not religion that you follow that celebrates something in the month of December and is the sore subject of the “Happy Holidays” versus “Merry Christmas” versus “I don’t care what you celebrate just enjoy your damn day with family” debate that occurs every year and every f*cking year after this one. </rant>


I am going to take a moment to recognize how fantastic this holiday is for people like me, who adore food in an unhealthy way and passionately hate cooking. Put on your stretchy pants because you are about to get HUNGRY and READY.

How My Thanksgiving Works:

In our family, the rules are: when you host, you bake the turkey and everyone brings the sides. When it’s at our house, my husband cooks (bakes? Shoves that delicious ball of plucked feather bird goodness into the hot turkey maker?) the turkey and I sit and wait in pleasured anticipation for people to come to my door CARRYING IN TRAYS OF FOOD. This is all totally legal and done by 84% of Americans* every third week of November. 

When it is hosted by someone else, my husband cooks the side (notice a pattern here?) and I get the kids all ready while quietly drooling and daydreaming about gravies, potatoes (mashed, baked, sautéed, fried, I don’t give a pickled pepper – potatoes are life), and stuffing.

Don’t even get me started when we visit my family up north. I don’t know if you know this, but my mom is literally the best cook ever and don’t even argue with me while I shove this magnificently prepared dish she created by using 14 different random ingredients from the fridge and whipped up without even needing this thing called Google like the rest of us sad, pathetic, can’t boil an egg folks. 

After I am done cleaning the bathrooms for the guests to arrive (because that’s about all I’m assigned to do and it can be done whilst also enjoying an adult beverage) I hover around the luscious potatoes…the different boats (so fancy!) of gravy…and OUR FAMILY STUFFING. No, we don’t make stuffing out of family members, you weirdo. It’s our family recipe. It involves ripping pieces of bread apart like a crazy person trying to not lose their sh*t preparing for the holidays then letting it STALE in a bag (appetized yet?). It is then shoved in the bird in a way that should probably be censored. The rest is baked on the side and when I tell you it’s good, it’s “Tina practically cries as she pours the gravy over it in escalating anticipation for the mouthwatering flavor to take over her mind, body, and soul.” I’d share the recipe but I like to be a jerk and keep things sacred. Just kidding, I don’t cook so I’d have to ask my mom for the recipe. Soooorrrry.

Two Tried and True Techniques to Thanksgiving:

  1. The sampler platter: Fill that bad boy up with a mini portion of every. single. thing. Go in a circle or just mush it all up together and DO THE THING. You get to try everything while also saving some room for  pie, cookies, and beer  a slice of cheesecake.
  2. The whole enchilada: Screw it. Put 4 pounds of mashed potatoes on one end, plop on a few (or nine) slices of turkey, add some stuffing, drizzle gravy all over it. Don’t forget to scoop a bit of that weird casserole Grandma made and that you don’t want her guilt tripping you later for not trying. And the cranberry sauce somewhere in that mess you call a plate. THEN GO TO TOWN.

Both work. Both usually result in the following scene:

“Oh God, I ate too much. I can’t move. I can’t breathe. Oooh, lookie lookie, pumpkin pie!” Oh, that’s just me? Sorry. Wait, no I’m not. I brought stretchy pants! 

SO. This is the advice part of the blog. You put on those stretchy black pants, girl. You own those pants. There is nothing more American than gluttony. That food is made with so much love by your Aunt Shirley or mom or someone else that isn’t me -pleasedontevereatmyfood- that it would be rude NOT to go for seconds. Or thirds. Don’t judge anyone on this day. Don’t hold back. Don’t say “No thank you, I’m on a diet.” (Who the HELL diets on Thanksgiving?!?) Don’t open your mouth to talk politics or question cousin Donnie’s pierced nipple – only open your mouth to insert delectable rations into your pie hole. Also, don’t even bother with Spanx stuff. You’ll just end up sneaking off to the bathroom and ripping them off while your belly goes “AHHH.” Trust me on this. Did that in a bathroom at a Greek restaurant once and let’s just say it’s just like these things.

Food is life. Remember that as you are shoving homemade buttered rolls in your mouth while Uncle Frank stares at you in horror and questioning everything that is good in this world.

The End.

*57% of all my statistics are 94% inaccurately accurate.

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