I think of holidays in terms of the food most abundantly used. Fourth of July is totally a hot dog holiday. Hanukkah, as you can guess, is oil. Don’t let anyone tell you that Passover is the Feast of Unleavened Bread. It’s not. It’s the Holiday of the Clogged Arteries because more than anything, Passover is about eggs. And Thanksgiving? Thanksgiving is the holiday of the dairy farmer. Yes, that’s right. Butter. Butter. More Butter. I don’t even want to think about how much butter was used in tonight’s cooking. Half a stick of butter on the turkey. One stick in the pumpkin layer cake. Two sticks in the frosting. Two sticks in the crescent rolls. A dollop in the spiced nuts. A heap in the stuffing. Butter, butter, butter. My hands are nice and soft.
The dinner was lovely and I can definitively say I can taste no difference between a brined and an un-brined turkey. The bourbon in the cranberry sauce is a keeper. And there’s no such thing as “just a tiny taste.” My pants are unbuttoned, and I’m ready for bed, as I plan in hitting Target at about 5 a.m. Hanukkah is T minus six (or perhaps five at this point), and I need to be prepared! Adam will be present-less this year, as he just recently bought his iPad. I suppose I will be too, as Adam went out to buy us Hot Tub Time Machine, thus starting a new Thanksgiving tradition.
Off to bed. Great white buffalo.
