It’s a strange thing but here I am, sitting here shortly after midday on a perfectly ordinary Friday with the sound of a newly recovered Graham laying smoothing plaster over the living-room floor, Dolly doing mega-cat things in the kitchen, the workmen on the building project next door doing noisy builder things, and do you know what I’m doing?
Fancying a good Thanksgiving blow-out, that’s what I’m doing. I want turkey, slow roasted, with red-currant jelly (sorry, you can keep your nasty sour cranberries), thick, rich gravy, and bread sauce the way my mother used to make it. Potatoes, mashed, roast and sweet. Carrot and swede mash. Roast parsnip. Brussels sprouts. Cabbage greens. And a pint of good old-fashioned Guinness to wash it down. And several varieties of cake, pie and ice-cream to follow during a long, food-laden afternoon.
It’s not fair. It’s not as if I’ve ever attended a Thanksgiving feast in real life; we don’t do Thanksgiving here in the UK, though I’m beginning to think that if we can make merry with ‘Halloween’, there’s no reason why we shouldn’t import a more munchy festival.
Ah well. I have brocolli and stilton soup for lunch, with half a very small baguette. I shall close my eyes afterward, and think of roast turkey with all the trimmings. Perhaps next year.
At least I shall not suffer from an over-loaded digestive system.
Back in reality, Graham has made a splendid recovery but has, typically, over-done it this morning [he won't be told] and will need a long afternoon nap. Dolly has just finished moaning and mumbling over her lunch and will shortly be off for her long afternoon nap.
Me, I’m day-dreaming of a Thanksgiving feast, and shall probably be off myself in a little while, pursuing my own long afternoon nap. That’s a whole lot of sleepin’ goin’ on.
