My Worst Thanksgiving Ever

I love Thanksgiving. I adore Thanksgiving. The delicate aromas wafting throughout the house of tender turkey, groovy gravy, marvelous mashed potatoes, and r- uh, r- hmm. I can't think of a word that starts with r to go with the incredible object of my heart's desire - the roll.

In case you couldn't tell, I'm a carbohydrate addict. You can keep your green bean casserole and your yams! Don't try to tempt me with a bite of ham. Relish trays are simply not relished by me. I'll even pass up the pies, just so long as I have the bare essentials.

Now that you know all of this about me, perhaps you might understand why my version of a worst Thanksgiving ever does not include any huge disasters like accidental fires or burnt food. It has nothing to do with inadvertantly dumping the platter of turkey on the floor. No, my idea of a worst Thanksgiving ever includes two simple words: stomach flu.

I don't recall precisely how old I was, but I'd spent most of the day in the bathroom, lamenting the delicate aromas wafting throughout the house. Come that night, I sat on the couch in the living room sipping on broth. BROTH! I ask you. Where is the justice in broth while in the next room over you can see your beloved mashed potatoes being gobbled down by insensitive brothers (sorry guys, but I have to call it as I saw it), and your delicious rolls mopping up pools of gravy.

That should have been my gravy.

At least this is not the case today. In a few hours we'll be joining my hubby's family for a delicious meal (one which I now vow we will never say no to doing the potatoes again!). I look forward to the afternoon...especially so we can hand the youngest off to others in the hopes that by the time she finds her way back to us she'll be too tired to make life for us miserable.

To anyone who reads this, have a wonderfully Happy Thanksgiving!