And the winner is a foregone conclusion. Reason being that I will gracefully yield. She (my apartment mate) has to dine with her kinfolk this evening, so she's making something to take over to the feast from which I am excluded, and I have no interest in getting in the way or dominating our kitchen. All across the country people will eat together while arguing politics and Trump's foolishness, which is a fine tradition, but my plans are: Lunch in Chinatown. Pipe. Milk tea in Chinatown. Pipe. More milk tea. And perhaps another pipe. Then home to fix myself a plate of nasi goreng.
And maybe another pipe.
Thanksgiving and Christmas are about single men smoking pipes.
And muttering unintelligibly to themselves.
Free the turkeys!
Step away from the skeevy old dude, dears, and think of cranberry sauce. Pecan pie. Corn. Pumpkin crap of some type. An overload of protein and starch, no romaine lettuce, and butter. All of which the native Americans gave us. Along with barbecue sauce, waffles and donuts.
Christmas is just around the corner.
And, for the vegans among us, succotash. Vegans love suffering.
Thanksgiving means lima beans.
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