The season has begun.
I made my traditional visit home for Thanksgiving, with the DH driving 3 hours, carrying the whole dinner, duct tape sealed in a series of crock pots. The turkey cooked, overnight in a Nesco roaster.
#2 Son helped with much of the cooking, and baking. This is in part due to Giada De Laurentis (America’s answer to Nigella Lawson). By the time #2 realized that the name of her Food Network special was Thanksgiving Tips (with a P) and Tricks and not something much more interesting to teenage boys, he knew the safe temperature for poultry cooking, and how to recognize and use a mandolin slicer.
We shared the feast with my parents. I spent most of the meal trying to convince my mother that appropriate conversations at the table should not include:
How annoying it is that poor people keep asking for food donations at Christmas (And they expect to eat every day).
A game of guess the grandchildren’s names. (There are two of them. She scored 50%)
That time when I went away to college and she put my dog to sleep. And it cost her fifteen whole dollars. (In her defense, the dog had bitten her, and probably deserved it. But I don’t need to be reminded of it, as she is eating my turkey.)
Since we forgot to bring a beverage, my Father brought out apple juice and orange juice. When we realized that the apple had expired in March, and the orange juice was actually generic Gatorade, #1 son went to the car and got the traditional Merrill family beverage: Coke Zero.
So. Same old, same old.
I have now moved on to Christmas candy. Fudge is cooling in the oven, to keep the dog from poisoning himself. Along side it are the dipped pretzels.
And in the metal live mouse trap, a creature is stirring. Judging by the amount of noise he is making, he is approximately six feet tall. And according to #2, he sounds like he’s playing bongos.
Fluffer, one of our resident mousers, is sitting in the doorway, staring at the trap in disgust.
Don’t put yourself out, Fluff.