I have 500 things left to do before we leave Wednesday morning, and not enough time for any of it, and the check my mother sent to reimburse us for the $300 we spent on game systems for her computer guy’s kid still hasn’t cleared paypal, and stress is running out of me the way water runs from a Hansgrohe faucet, and my head hurts, and I feel hung over, but it’s not from alcohol. It’s from carbs.
Oh, the carbs. And the cream.
For yesterday was the Feast of the Turducken, which is a mythical southern beastie comprised of a stuffed chicken stuffed into a duck, which is in turn stuffed into a turkey. It tastes better than it sounds. Really. Also there are like six drumsticks and assorted wings, but no other bones, so the end result is the poultry equivalent of one of those caravan sandwiches that are often served as party nibbles.
The rest of the food was equally tasty: mac-n-cheese, squash-n-cheese, creamed pearl onions, cranberry sauce, whipped yams, and, in a bow to healthy eating, steamed broccoli (with ginger) and a salad. All of this was, of course, followed by pumpkin pie.
The food was excellent, if lethal, and the company was of the sort that is equally comfortable discussing the merits of mac vs. pc, high speed internet options, and trashy movies.
It was a lovely interlude.
But I still feel panicked.
Panic by Melissa Bartell is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.