It’s the Sunday after Thanksgiving and I’ve just downed my fourth turkey sandwich, surpassing my usual two-day rule for leftovers. Our 20 lb. free-range bird was yummy, if I say so myself, and that was without any brining or fuss except for some butter, sage, and a bit of apple cider.
Leah made the delicious stuffing, a wickedly decadent potato gratin, and her first pie ever: carmelized apple pecan. Amazing.
I’m a horrible holiday archivist because I didn’t get any decent group shots of our 14 guests, but we had a truly wonderful time with family and friends. I did manage to get a few photos of the grub—here’s the table just before we sat down followed by some other shots of our bountiful meal. To all my orthodox relatives reading this: how the hell did that honeybaked ham get on my table? Someone must have Photoshopped it in…
Charlie enjoyed the turkey and fixins immensely and soon fell into a tryptophan-based coma (although some of our friends claimed that the whole turkey-tryptophan thing is a myth).
It’s still a mystery to me why our holiday season has to include such gluttony but I enjoyed every one of the 4,000 calories I probably ingested that night. And what a success—only one of our dinner guests ended up at the Cedars emergency room. Oy. At first I worried that I had poisoned everyone but it turns out it was her gall bladder.
Unlike last year, Charlie is now too big to take a dip in our turkey roaster. But like last year, there’s no mystery about all the people in my life for whom I am eternally thankful.
Happy Thanksgiving and Holidays to all of you.