If you know me, you know that I’m somewhat of a Thanksgiving Day grinch. I don’t make a turkey, a pumpkin pie, or cranberry sauce, or stuff my face with 4,000 calories for one meal. Instead I usually pick a new-to-me dinner recipe to tackle. I don’t travel home because I work a full day on Wednesday and Friday, it’s not worth a two hour drive for dinner, not that I don’t enjoy seeing my family, I just don’t have the luxury of taking extra time off of work, for dinner. I don’t bother requesting that time off of work because I realize others do put importance on Thanksgiving. It would be selfish of me to take time off when I don’t even celebrate.
Though I don’t celebrate a standard Thanksgiving, I am thankful for things.
Yesterday John and I were shimmying in the kitchen around each other slicing and dicing vegetables for our cheddar chicken potpie. The dogs were running circles in the yard. My caramel cookie bars were cooling on a cookie rack. It was a lovely afternoon.
“Owwwwe, OWE, Oweeeee!!!” John starts freaking out behind me.
*SMASH!! EXPLODE!! GLASS SHARDS EVERYWHERE!!*
“Uh, what was that?” I thought it was my precious Ironman pint glass.
“I left the burner on, the pie dish was hot, I picked it up”
“I smell burning”
“Yeah, that’s probably my skin…. Oh, shit! Nope, that’s the linoleum floor melting”
“At least the dogs were outside” I offer. “At least it didn’t explode in your hands or in your face” I added.