We don't cook turkey on Thanksgiving. The Husband isn't wild about any of the typical feast fare and unlike me, he doesn't live to eat. But I'm not heartbroken about not having the traditional meal because I know there will be those folks begging me to take the last of the pie, turkey and other trimmings come Sunday or Monday. So I make what he does like, which is baked beans.
We started the day with Coma Rolls, what I like to call my homemade cinnamon buns. There is so much butter and sugar in these things that unless you have a supply of insulin handy, you best prepare for a long nap. Which we did. Those parades are overrated anyway.
The meal itself was presented around 4 o'clock; beans, homemade bread, a green salad and Indian pudding (or, as I had to qualify, Native American Indian pudding). It's a traditional New England dish baked with cornmeal and molasses and a real pain in the ass to make if you don't have a double boiler. In case you were wondering. It's really good with vanilla ice cream. But what isn't.
Then we headed off to a friends for more dessert and to referee two brothers in their forties pelting each other with cat toys.
We know how to be thankful.