Not Even Close

Did everyone enjoy their holiday? Have you noticed that no-one says “Did you enjoy the Thanksgiving?” We all say “Did you enjoy your Thanksgiving?” It’s like an individually wrapped present…unique and ‘specially made for each and every one of us. (You may smile a knowing smile…once again in wonder and amazement at how incredibly profound and talented I am to have even thought of something so insightfully meaningful.)

When you think about it, there’s not a heck of a lot to not like about Thanksgiving, as it’s basically alcohol, food and family.

The alcohol is the fundamental essence of the holiday, if you will…the building blocks through which all else must instigate… the most basic of Thanksgiving groundwork. How we managed to enjoy any version of this holiday as children is completely lost on me…although, I do seem to recall something about chocolate Turkeys, so that may have served as the bridge until the legal age when Thanksgiving could then be celebrated properly….by being sufficiently liquored up so as to do our best “winging” of the traditional recipes. Given an unlimited supply of gin martinis, (or Cloudy…or, heck…anything…) I can (and gladly will) throw all caution to the wind and will conquer that yam recipe! Recipe??! Wait. What recipe??!:

As you can clearly see, Jackie’s yam recipe is for 2 pounds of yams. I, however, through the magic of one bathroom scale, (Connor thought this was incredibly gross, till I informed him that we’d be sure to bag ‘em before weighing ‘em, thereby avoiding any serious foot-kooties) discovered I had a whopping 7 pounds. This meant that I needed to multiply 2/3 of a cup of sugar by 3.5.

Difficult? Uh, yeah.

Made infinitely easier after two or three glasses of Cloudy? Abso-freakin’-lutely.

That and Taylor’s scientific calculator made for all the difference. You may laugh all you want….for the end more than justified the means. (This is a fancy way of saying that the yams were extremely tasty. Seriously.)

There are many, many occasions where several cocktails have helped to walk that fine line between sanity and its half-baked one-foot-in-the–asylum cousin, insanity.

And whilst we’re on the subject, I have to speak to my ever-lovin’ IV Clinton Kelly,

if he’s around here somewhere….(God, I love this photo of him....where is he, anyway?)

Clinton: “What’s new pussycat?”

Kathryn: “CLINTON! Hello, baybee! You know the way I’m on a quest for the perfect Cloudy back-up…ya know, in case some voracious plague-like mold infects the entire New Zealand coastline vineyards… leaving the rest of the world void of any and all Cloudy, et al?”

C: “I’m ashamed to admit this, but I have been privy to this rant on several occasions and although somewhat paranoid in nature, in the event of a Cloudy shortage I know where I’m looking for supplies. Although, the ‘et al’ is a new twist…”

K: “Whatever. That is SO not my point. That guy from the wine cellar down the street? You know…the guy who gave me his home number on the back of his card and said to ‘call anytime…anytime at all’…just let him know and he’ll freakin’ open the store if need be….that guy?? He recommended this wine from France…it’s called “Domaine Du Tariquet famille Grassa Sauvignon Vin De Pays Des Cotes De Gascogne”, which I think roughly translates to “Here lies a little plot of grassy land where our family planted a bunch of grapes, as we firmly believe you’ll pay through the nose because we are French and therefore are superior to you Americans, you New Zealanders and anyone who believes that ‘Dieu’ is French for ‘dear’. And by the way, it's the same plot of land where we buried that pet hedgehog from 1993, which may account for that unique, musky flavor you cannot identify.”

C: (Deadpan twinkly-blue-eyed stare)“Am I to assume that you're coming up on a point sometime in the foreseeable future? I was right in the middle of my second spiced apple cider and a cutthroat game of 'Scene It, Poltergeist Revisited' when you called.”

K: “Huh. So, just another Sunday night, eh? 'DON'T TOUCH MY BABY!'"

C: (Hands on hips) "Uh-huh. Your point?"

K: "FINE. Ew. Ack. Gag me with a spoon. What was he thinking, recommending this wine? I’ll bet he hasn’t even tasted Cloudy….and here I’m taking comparison advice from this guy. Remind me to boycott…seriously. It’s not even remotely similar. It’s like regular versus decaf…or Coke versus Pepsi…or King Crab versus that lump fish-substitute stuff they sell at BJ’s…”

C: “Okay…now you’re just grossing me out. I love you, kiddo…but it's time to make your point. You’re at 700 on count…tick, tock…”

K: “Awww! I love you, too! How sweet are you? Gagging right alongside me…worrying about my word count….but I know you're just wanting to get back to the bodies in the pool. You are so transparent. Did I mention that this wine had the audacity to have an actual cork? And there was no familiar cat-pee smell, either. Just some aroma that smelled like a cross between carrot juice and Metro’s dog food.”

C: “I’m going to throw up now.”

K: “Hang on…I’ll be right there.” (Mental note: buy more Cloudy.)

(Heard in the distance: "Clinton! DO NOT GO INTO THE LIGHT!"