My friends Mike and Amy had me over for a Thanksgiving meal today (and by meal I mean “orgy of food”) that left me laid out in a tryptophan coma for about half the day. It was a lovely meal. You could hear your arteries clang shut.
Also, I’ve now witnessed two men deep-fry a turkey. This was not to be missed. The roiling of a pot of boiling oil when you drop a fourteen pound turkey in it was deeply ominous, even conducted outside and away from flammable materials. (Don’t knock it, it was delicious. Let’s face it, deep frying makes EVERYTHING better.)
Leftovers were sent home with me, possibly because my friends have all jumped on the “Eat! Eat! You’re too thin!” bandwagon, but more likely because there were more leftovers than the fourteen attendees could plow through in a week. Damn, that was a lot of food.
I came home, I slept, the cat (who loves it when I’m sick or in a food coma, because I spend so much time horizontal) slept on my chest, I woke up, discovered that my favorite poet of all time, Billy Collins, was on Prairie Home Companion, played Harvest Moon, drank apple cider, listened to good, approachable, entertaining poetry, and impregnated a cow.*
Life is good.
*Okay, what the hell is up with THAT? You buy a “miracle potion” to knock up your cow. The miracle potion consists of your assistant bringing in a bull and telling you to go outside while he “administers the potion.” You go outside. A minute later, there is a startled moo. The assistant calls that everything is fine. He leaves with the bull and presto, your cow is pregnant.
I am left with an overwhelming urge to leap to my feet and yell “I see what you did there!”
I am not sure if this was a genuine attempt to spare the kiddies from any hint of where little bovines come from, or whether this was a sneaky attempt to crack up the adults in the audience. Possibly both. “Miracle potion,” my ass…