DAAAD, I’m Hungover, Get the Squash Out of My Face
Last year was only the 2nd Thanksgiving where I was really into cooking and wanted to offer a couple dishes to my host (family friends.) I promised stuffed mushrooms for an app, roasted butternut squash as a side dish, and if I had time, either broccoli or asparagus.
Luckily, on Wednesday night, I cleaned out all the mushrooms and got them ready for stuffing. But that was the only prep I had done. Dad gansie and I still had to shop on Thursday morning and cook everything else.
So here’s the rub: How is it fair that the biggest cooking day of the year — Thanksgiving — is proceeded by the biggest party night of the year?!?! Does that make any fucking sense?!?! I guess it usually ends up by the time people are responsible enough to take on cooking the meal, they’re out of the “let’s go to our high school hang out bar, see people from our past we would never want to see normally, and take shots until 3 in the morning.”
I’m sure you can guess, I fell into that lovely middle category. Pumped to contribute to Tgiving, but also pumped to party with my hometown buds. I blame a few choice people for my indescribably miserable hangover, but I won’t name names. Although, it probably didn’t help that I never ate dinner through my 5 hour ride from DC to Jersey.
At about 10 on Tgiving morning, dad gansie yanked me out of bed and forced me into the grocery store. I had promised to cook. FUCK. So, there I am, basically laying my entire body on the shopping cart, moaning about how I’m going to puke, and dad gansie is asking me what kind of herbs I want for the sour cream mixture that will fill the stuffed mushrooms. Kill me.
When we got home, I persuaded my dad to let me “lay down” for a bit and to start cooking at about noon. That worked for a bit, but then we had to get going.
My head just wouldn’t allow me to take it off the couch.
Not wanting to hear me moan, or see my puke – again – my dad took over the helm and cooked everything for me. Thanks, dad gansie! But, he didn’t just let me sleep. Noooo. Every 5 minutes he would come over to the couch, shove some sort of food in my face, try to make me smell it or taste it, to see if it was good. This led me to yell and moan that I did not give a shit about food and especially did not give a shit how much rosemary should be on the butternut squash.
Well, I said all that to say – Dad, I will do everything in my limited ability not to be hung over on Thanksgiving 2007.
We’re hosting this year. Please send suggestions on things I can make if I just so happen to need to rest my head on the counter.