We are talking all of the gravy and stuffing you can shove in your gob, with none of the drunk uncles or mom-guilt about how much you are drinking or when the grandchildren will magically appear. (these last two are obviously not about me.) No snits over burned biscuits or late turkey. More like extensive scientific discussions over whether the stuff in the measuring cup is fat or drippings (it was fat) over massive infusions of spinach dip.
You even have free reign to bring your weird walnut sweet-potato apple clove crisp thing without your cousins giving you the side-eye because it is not the whipped yams with marshmallows that we have all eaten every year for our entire lives.
Side note-squash soup with coconut and bananas sprinkled on top=NOM NOM NOM.
Plus, huge emphasis on pie. Baked goods have become a very important part of my life this year, as this year has been a big angst bath with stress bubbles. And I have not been able to take the edge off with alcohol...you know, because of the fetus, so for me, this was a great idea:
Give a pie to three chicks, two of them pregnant, one of them drunk, and this is what happens:
Thanks go out to Nick and Mary, for having your friends over and main-lining us the (awesome!) gravy and turkey on Saturday, and to Steph, for baking the kick-ass pie. You guys rock my face off.