Happy Thanksgiving!

For those of us in the USA–Happy Thanksgiving! No, it’s not “turkey day!” Let us not pervert the holiday of giving thanks into the holiday of gluttony. Yes, I’m cooking. A lot of stuff.

But I mostly do not like Thanksgiving fare. Turkey? Yuck. I do not eat it. Dressing? I really don’t care for it–except the way my grandmother used to make it, and not so much even then–and it’s not worth the carbs/calories. Cranberries–eh. Green bean casserole is not natural. I do like the sweet potatoes, but look at those marshmallows and that sugar. (Diabetes, remember.) I’m going to make scalloped potatoes so there’ll be a sin I can enjoy without shooting my sugars TOO far stratospheric. And yeast rolls, just because it’s not fair to have all that cornbread in the dressing all by itself. As usual, spinach dip in honor of my mother-in-law (who always made it). And perhaps something else, if I find some odds and ends and decide to experiment with edibles.

We’re not having pies. I’m going to make a Splenda-infused pumpkin cheesecake. We’ll see how it turns out.

I also have backup: a spinach-mushroom quiche that I picked up last night at Whole Paycheck Market and a little container of their Kung Pao Tofu. If I don’t like dinner, I’ll sneak back in to get these later on.

It’s not very cold yet here. Was 80 degrees yesterday as I frantically zipped from errand to errand. Norther came in from Borealis’ direction, bringing some cold wind. But I think it’s in the upper forties.

What is with the Macy’s parade coverage? All staged “events” and no balloons or marching bands yet. Bring on the Kilgore Rangerettes and the baton twirling squad!

Hope you end up with a full tummy but no weight gain to show for it!


Author: shalanna

Shalanna: rhymes with "Madonna" and "I wanna," and is not a soundalike with "Hosanna" or "Sha-Na-Na." Aging hippie with long hair, husband, elderly mother, and yappy Pomeranian. I've been writing since I could hold a crayon. I started with fiction, which Mama said was "lying." “Don’t tell stories,” she would admonish, in Southern vernacular. “That's all in your imagination!” When grownups said this, they were not approving. So, shamed, I stopped telling stories for a few years--rather, I stopped letting anyone read them. I'm married to a fellow computer nerd who doesn't really like hearing about writing, but who reads sf/fantasy and understands the creative drive. I'm actually a nonconformist/hippie still wearing bluejeans and drop earrings and the Alice-in-Wonderland hair with headbands and sandals. Favorite flavor is chocolate/orange, favorite color is either Dreamsicle orange (cantaloupe) or bubble-gum pink, favorite musical is either Bye Bye Birdie, Rocky Horror, or The Producers . . . wait, I also love The Music Man. Is this getting way too specific and irrelevant yet? Obvious why I don't sell a ton of flash fiction, isn't it? To define oneself, I always say, it is good to make a list. How about a booklist? Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird Frank and Ernestine Gilbreth, Cheaper by the Dozen C.S.Lewis, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe (all the Narnia books) J.R.R.Tolkien,The Hobbit/LORD OF THE RINGS trilogy Gail Godwin, The Odd Woman F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby J. D. Salinger, Catcher in the Rye (before dismissing it, actually read it) George Orwell, 1984 Kurt Vonnegut, Cat's Cradle Donna Tartt, The Secret History Mark Twain, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn James Allen, As A Man Thinketh Mark Winegardner, Elvis Presley Boulevard James Thurber, My Life and Hard Times The Wizard of Oz, L. Frank Baum Winnie-the-Pooh/House at Pooh Corner, A. A. Milne Peter Pan, J. M. Barrie The KJV and NIV Bible (each translation has its glories)

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