Can we not call it "Tom the Turkey" this year?

My two favorite holidays are the 4th of July and Thanksgiving; 4th of July because you can wear an American flag thong bathing suit and chase vodka shots with Otter Pops, and Thanksgiving for more meaningful reasons.

Here’s what I know about Thanksgiving: I know that I can go out in Denver on a Wednesday night and know every person downtown. I know I’ll run into people I went to kindergarten with and people I haven’t seen since high school. I know that I’ll inevitably get carried away taking shots at the bar with long lost friends and wake up hung over on Thanksgiving morning, but I’ll somehow find the resolve to go running in the park behind my parents’ house with my mom.

I know that my dad will almost persuade me to go waterskiing with him and his friends on Thanksgiving morning, but I’ll always chicken out at the last minute. I know that we’ll turn on the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade while we’re cooking, even though we all hate it. (There’s nothing creepier than a giant Charlie Brown float. Period.) I know that I’ll lose my enthusiasm for peeling potatoes after the third one but I’ll have to do at least 30, and my hand will be sore from using this weird potato masher we have, and I’ll use at least a box of butter before I’m finished, but it’s OK because mashed potatoes are a Thanksgiving staple and the people are depending on me for god’s sake!!

I know that my grandparents will show up two hours early—in earlier years, it was so that we could all go for a bike ride, but now it’s mainly because they’re too excited to wait until 4:00. I know I love cooking with my grandma(s) and can’t imagine a Thanksgiving without them. I know Courtney gets to make the gravy because I always help my dad carve the turkey. I know someone will inevitably personify the turkey, calling him “Tom Turkey”, and I’ll roll my eyes, because why is that necessary? I know no one really likes dark meat. I know that people will always take some sweet potatoes for courtesy’s sake, but they don’t hold a candle to the mashed potatoes. (“By all means, get seconds! I made enough to feed an army!”) And I know people WILL get seconds because Thanksgiving is the one day people go hog wild and don’t feel bad about it. (The average American consumes 4500 calories and 229 grams of fat on Thanksgiving. 215 of them are from my mashed potatoes. You’re welcome.)

I know everyone ends up in the kitchen, no matter how many hors d’ourves we put out to lure them into the family room. I know that on this one day, everyone likes football, or at least pretends to. (This year, Orton better power through that pansy-ass ankle injury and show me something. We’re on a slippery slope here Kyle, don’t let us down.) I know that we’ll drink Bloody Mary’s to start, but we’ll blow through several bottles of wine as the night progresses. (People say it’s the L-tryptophan in the turkey that makes everyone tired—it’s obviously the 8 glasses of wine. Also, people never know how to pronounce L-tryptophan. It’s el-trip-teh-fan. Again, you’re welcome.)

Mostly, I know how easy it is to take things for granted. It’s so easy to get caught up in trivial things and forget to count your blessings. So between the best mashed potatoes you’ve ever had (“Please, stop thanking me, I know they’re good but I hardly did anything, really!”) and the questionable side dish (“Jamie, this pheasant side dish is… different!”), I always pause to think about two things: how truly fortunate I am, and how truly excited I am for leftovers.

HAPPY THANKSGIVING!