Turkey Coma.

Weeks of menu planning. Days of cleaning and cooking. All for…25 minutes of eating.

Granted, it was a meal to remember. My husband, the frustrated chef, made one hell of a turkey (which may have something to do with the cup of real butter he injected into its flesh). The mashed potatoes were so creamy they didn’t even need gravy. And the stuffing?

Well, I made the stuffing, but it was still pretty darn good.

I also made a kick ass pumpkin cream cheese pie. But, when you think about it, there really wasn’t much chance of that going wrong. I mean, pumpkin and cream cheese? Might be the world’s second most tasty flavor combination (chocolate and peanut butter being the first).

There was one failure, though.

My pecan pie. I followed the instructions to the letter, and it looked and smelled wonderful (I should have taken a picture). But, like so many things that are beautiful on the surface, it disappointed once you saw (or, rather tasted) what lay beneath its gorgeous exterior.

It tasted like ass. Sugary, gelatinous ass.

I won’t be making that one again.

And now? Now we have approximately 12 pounds of turkey left over, along with a vat of mashed potatoes, various breakfast loaves, quiche…it’s a dieter’s nightmare. Especially since we are back down to the two of us in the house (three, really, but one doesn’t eat much).

But I have willpower. Or, at least I will…once that pumpkin cream cheese pie is gone.

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