the most fabulous pink turkeeeeeeeeeey

her: *thought bub­bles*
Haha green bean casse­role, right?! I know what food YOU were as­signed to bring!

me: *hh­hhnnnn*
“Umm no not re­al­ly, haha, uh, my hus­band does all the cook­ing.”
*forced third grade pic­ture day smile*

her:
“Oh re­al­ly?” She looked and sound­ed gen­uine­ly sur­prised. “That’s nice.”

me:
“Yeah and we’re just sautéing the green beans. Not re­al­ly into the whole casse­role thing.”

her: *en­thu­si­asm plung­ing*
“I see …”
*third grade smile*

Pret­ty sure 99% of Thanks­giv­ing sides are from those ter­ri­fy­ing cook books that were put out in the mid fifties and six­ties that seem to have been writ­ten by per­sons re­al­ly high and drunk and must have just thrown every­thing they could find in their kitchens into one dish.

I’ll even bet Paul Mc­Cart­ney likes green bean casse­role and he makes it while lis­ten­ing to his own record­ing of Band on the Run.

 

Aaaaah­hh!!! Bugs!!!

Haha just kid­ding, these are pep­per­corns.

pro tip:
If you need to get into a Mc­Cormick pep­per grinder be­cause you need the pep­per­corns in­side, use a hair dry­er on high heat around the plas­tic cap for thir­ty sec­onds or so. I’ll pop right off!

an­oth­er pro tip:
Don’t pull at the lid like you’re King Kong rip­ping the top off a sky­scraper. Pep­per­corns will go every­where.

me be­fore meds: 
Would have sat down on the edge of my bath­tub and sobbed while pulling at my hair.

me on meds: 
Just squealed with de­light at the pep­per­corns fly­ing every­where, then saw the mess, said “ugh!” and laughed as I went to get the vac­u­um.

Thank­ful­ly I have a Dyson stick that made short work of it, but much like the con­fet­ti stars I am still find­ing around my house from my Os­car par­ty this past Feb­ru­ary, I ex­pect pep­per­corns to turn up for a while.

drunk me:
Go­ing to find one a few months from now, “FUCK IS THAT RAT POOP?!”

 

men­tal health aware­ness psa:
Don’t let any­one tell you this hol­i­day that de­pres­sion, anx­i­ety, or any oth­er men­tal ill­ness isn’t real, is your own fault, or only hap­pens to peo­ple who are weak. Do not put up with this “you just need to go outside/get exercise/do yoga/find Je­sus” bull­shit. Don’t let them tell you the drugs that save your life are poi­son or are a tool of big phar­ma.

If any­one pulls that shit and won’t knock it off right quick and then apol­o­gize, take their food away and slide it off the plate into the garbage while look­ing them dead in the eyes.

Then tell them to get the fuck out. If you’re at their house, stand up, tell them their cook­ing sucks, and then leave.

You know, I might just wear these su­per com­fy fleece lined sweat­pants out in pub­lic be­cause even though they have big pock­ets they hold zero fucks.

Hap­py Thanks­giv­ing!

 

—emi­ly duchaine

Flom­mist Emi­ly Duchaine lives in the Pa­cif­ic North­west. She likes to drink mead, learn about sharks, and lis­ten to the Talk­ing Heads. She pre­tends to be a pro­fes­sion­al busi­ness­woman most days. Copy­right © 2019 Emi­ly Duchaine.

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