Things I am sick of
So here I am on the eve of the eve of Thanksgiving, the mother of all holidays. I love to eat. The kitchen was the focal point in my Gonga's house, as it is at my mom's. We loved to cook and loved to eat even more. I have so many happy childhood memories of spending the two days preceding Thanksgiving staying at my grandmother's house and cooking, which began just after breakfast and lasted way past dinner.
Mounds of celery and onion simmering in sticks of butter for the multiple pans of dressing. The food processor pulsating whole cranberries to bits. Mince meat and pumpkin pies cooling on top of the washer and dryer. If I concentrate hard enough, I can still smell the leftover pie crusts, slather with butter, cinnamon, and sugar baking in the oven.
I shudder to think of the amount of glorious calories I'll be inhaling as I feast on honey-brined turkey, pumpkin pie, cranberry relish, marshmallow salad, and stuffing.
But I can't take it any longer. When I blew out my knee in '08, I knew I was going to have problems with it every winter. And it's only been coldish weather for 3 weeks and I'm already popping ibuprofen like House pops Vicodin. I know if I don't get my weight down and my body back in shape I'll be limping along on my cane like I was five years ago. (And it won't be the cool limp that lands me a flatmate, ala Watson running through the streets with Sherlock).
It's all fun and games the next two days. Friday, the bitching begins.
- The current Administration
- The cost of gas
- The drug/flop house across the street
- My weight
- Christmas shopping traffic on Rt. 3
- The mouse that keeps out outwitting every trap and poison I set out. He shat a ring around the last trap.
- My feet being cold all winter long. I wear 2 pairs of socks with my shoes, nuthin doing son.
So here I am on the eve of the eve of Thanksgiving, the mother of all holidays. I love to eat. The kitchen was the focal point in my Gonga's house, as it is at my mom's. We loved to cook and loved to eat even more. I have so many happy childhood memories of spending the two days preceding Thanksgiving staying at my grandmother's house and cooking, which began just after breakfast and lasted way past dinner.
 |
| Me, age 12, mixing cornbread dressing in cooler. Because there isn't a bowl big enough. |
I shudder to think of the amount of glorious calories I'll be inhaling as I feast on honey-brined turkey, pumpkin pie, cranberry relish, marshmallow salad, and stuffing.
But I can't take it any longer. When I blew out my knee in '08, I knew I was going to have problems with it every winter. And it's only been coldish weather for 3 weeks and I'm already popping ibuprofen like House pops Vicodin. I know if I don't get my weight down and my body back in shape I'll be limping along on my cane like I was five years ago. (And it won't be the cool limp that lands me a flatmate, ala Watson running through the streets with Sherlock).
It's all fun and games the next two days. Friday, the bitching begins.
