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  • Writer's pictureChoo Choo

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There is something about Thanksgiving food (not even turkey specifically, but all Thanksgiving food, in its cheesy, carby, buttery splendor) that sinks me into an unproductive lumpen funk for a lot longer than it has any right to. I don't regret a thing. This year was one of the best Thanksgivings yet; I spent the whole week leading up to it preparing various do-ahead dishes, then woke up at 8am Thursday morning and cooked for seven more hours. The guys were absolute saints for putting up with my impatient control freak kitchen demeanor, and we drank, I cooked, and they washed dishes, and by the time dinner was ready we were all good and happy and drunk. And full. Oh, so full.

A steady rain has been falling relentlessly since early this morning. Not anything torrential, but just heavy enough to suddenly turn every driver into a coordinationally-impaired nutcase. After I got back from work I promptly changed into pajamas and resolved to stay in for the rest of the evening. So far it has been lovely. A nap here, some practicing there. Now time to scour Netflix for a bad movie while I eat greasy takeout. I think fried mushrooms are my Kryptonite.

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