Tuesday, October 19, 2004

Last Year's Thanksgiving. A True Story

By popular demand, I am posting last years Thanksgiving story. I did not make this up, it is a true story. Many thanks to Puffin over at IncoherentRamblings.....http://puffin89.blogspot.com/ for still having this in his email. Love you, my dear.

And here we go:

My Thanksgiving was just as fucking weird as I had figgered it would be. Big Momma was almost an hour late (which unto itself enough to give me foaming fits) 2 guests cancelled, one at the exact stroke of 1 o'clock. (Arrive at 2) One of the remaining guests showed up early, whining that he was hungry. "Big Momma is the bearer of snacks my friend." So he blows out of my place and heads to the local 7/11 loading up on chips, dips, assorted drek, AND A HOT DOG. The other guest shows up and announces that he's kind of full because he ate already. I'm dumbfounded (as opposed to just plain dumb) but he assures me that he'll be able to eat. "Damn straight," sez I.

Then Big Momma rolls in, with great theatrics (But no apology) bringing wine. Her idea of good wine is Gossamer Bay White Zinfandel, which is only a short stagger up the vino food chain from box wine. I didn't care, I wanted some. So, this merry group is all hanging out in the kitchen yakking away, Mr. Already Ate Dinner is carving the bird, and pronounces it 'overcooked' and whisks the pan away to fill it with soap and water before I could react. Mr. HotDog Eatin' Bastard is whining, "Wheres the graaavy?? Whaddya mean theres no graaavy." Pan drippings now merrily cut with Dawn soap and hot water. (theres your fuckin gravy) At which point, I said, "TELL YA WHAT. ALL YOU PEOPLE CAN TROT YOUR MERRY ASSES UP TO THE TRUCKSTOP WHERE I'M SURE YOU CAN HAVE A SWELL FUCKIN' THANKSGIVING DINNER." Dead silence...jaws hanging open. Big Momma is the first to say anything..'Well lets get dinner on the table, everything looks really good." And her two merry men proceed to bear all the food to the table. (Digress...Big Momma was supposed to bring me a tablecloth, since I've never been married to receive such swell gifts, and would have no earthly use for a tablecloth any other time but holidays..she didn't bring the freaking tablecloth because I didn't specify what kind of table I had...round, 2 boards, oak...WTF do you want from me??)

ANYWAY. So we all sit down, a prayer is said, (Dear Lord, thanks for old friends and new, except for this lot of ingrates. Peace out, Ames) Food is passed, and semi-pleasant conversation is made...Hot Dog Eatin' Bastard:" I can't believe you don't have any gravy"..... Mr. Already ate Dinner: Huh? What? (He's A tad deaf) Big Momma, "Well now you'll know how much work it is to cook for people." (Shut up)

Then it was time for dessert. I had tried out a new recipe (uh-oh) which was a Southern Caramel Cake. Said cake has the old fashioned icing you cook, which I had never made. So at 1 o'clock, I'm boiling 2 cups of milk and 3 cups of brown sugar, according to the directions. It was supposed to whip itself into a frenzy, and become light as air after it reached 240 on the candy thermometer. Welllll....It made it to 225, and I beat, and beat and beat this shit, and it didn't get any hotter, nor fluffy. I figgered I did something wrong, but hey, what the fuck, lets go for it, so I poured this lava-like icing over the cakes. It was beautiful!! All pretty and brown and caramel-ly looking, so I slid it carefully into the fridge...during dinner, the pretty brown stuff overflowed the cake, overflowed the plate, and became firmly attached to the bottom shelf of the fridge. Much to the delight of my guests. Fortunately, I made a second dessert and that turned out good.

I must have scared them because the three of them washed every single dish, and put away every leftover and anything else they could before they left. At 6:15, they were all out of here, and I was a twitching pile of cosmic goo on the couch, swilling bad wine.

This is all true, I swear to all the Gods.


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