Here’s a secret that’s not really a secret: Thanksgiving is my least favorite holiday. I love being grateful, that’s not it. And I have so so many things for which I am indeed grateful. It’s all that food. The work that goes into preparation, even though everyone in our family pitches in and helps. The amount of cleanup afterwards, again though everyone helps. The refrigerator stuffed to the gills with so many leftovers, there’s room for nothing else. Turkey sandwiches are great but I’d just as soon buy some sliced turkey from the local deli. Admittedly, mashed potatoes are good and I love wild rice, a Thanksgiving tradition from my Midwest background, but the dressing is non-essential in my opinion. Turkey soup lovingly prepared the next day from the carcass of the dead bird? Never mind. Forty ears ago when our children were young and we lived in North Texas, one Thanksgiving we drove through the state and camped in a tent on Padre Island for the long weekend. On Thanksgiving Day, we grilled hot dogs and boiled shrimp at our campsite right on the beach. Truthfully, that was my favorite Thanksgiving of all time but it’s not financially possible for all thirteen of us right now. So I took a poll of family members. Turns out, except for my husband, no one cares about the traditional meal so I picked up a ten pound turkey for him to enjoy next week. We’re doing something different. This year it’s Asian-themed and everyone is contributing. Fried rice, pot stickers from scratch, homemade lumpia, and a bunch of other things. My concession is some homemade cranberry sauce in honor of my dad, whose entire adult life was devoted to growing, processing and marketing cranberries. But I think we’re onto something.
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