Thanksgiving has always been a food holiday. It has so little bearing on the history of the United States, based as it is on the vaguest nationalistic mythologies, that it's easiest just to count our blessings and then chow down. We gave (and received in donations) enough food at the food shelf in the past week to cover 50 or so households for the holidays -- not festive food, in some cases, but decently palatable. So it should be okay just to come home and act the pig.
My gut HURTS, I ate too much, and the funny part is that I probably consumed half of last year's volume. I waited as long as I could before I had anything, saving up my calories; but CW showed up with good bread and great cheese. I haven't seen real cheese in MONTHS. So I overdid that a tiny bit. And the pie -- two pieces. Grunt. Oink. And with the wine besides (a Valpolicelli, a Barolo), time itself has sort of stretched and warped...the day has gone on forever, all thoughts come slow, the lights seem too bright, I need an Advil. But I shouldn't go to bed yet, I'm still too full, and the memory of last night's dreaming still flickers brightly in the back of my mind -- ready to keep me from sleep.