After the Whipped Cream Cleared

Ok, you all know the drill. The plates start at Turkey Junction and make their way around the table acquiring a sweet vegetable dish and then a savory vegetable dish, maybe some offhanded comment about how full it is, and then when all the plates have arrived at their rightful owner's lap, it's time--let the round-robin divulgence of thankfulness begin. All eyes are on you –hungry eyes (insert Patrick Swayze joke here)—you can feel a lump building up in your throat and the sweat start to form in heavy beads on your brow. This used to be so easy but now you're torn in an age-old inner conflict: Dark Truth vs White Lie. You just heard your cousin (along with half the table before her) say she "...is thankful for her wonderful family and friends…" accompanied by staggered sighs of semi-feigned praise. You want those same sighs, you really do, but—and I love you family, I love you friends—you finally got extended cable and you are really really thankful for DVR. Or, even simpler, you're a month behind on some pretty important car maintenance and you're just thankful the damn thing even made it all the way over the river and through the woods. So what do you do? Do you expose yourself as the slightly more shallow (or realistic) relative or do you go with the flow and receive acclaim as a golden child, going on about world peace? I advocate for the former—do something different this year, be the one to break the mold. Because let's face it, those old standard issues have become cliché and a bit hollow; I found myself muttering "I'm thankful for my family and friends" under my breath as a calming mantra while trying to fight for an appetizer and then again as I was pushing my way through the fuss and drama in the kitchen. So here, in retrospect, I find it necessary to pave the way and offer my personal thanks from Thursday.

I am thankful:

-that no one noticed I made the mashed potatoes with almond milk instead of cow's milk.

-for being in the minority in my pro-white meat family, dark meat is way better and it's all mine…

-that, in light of past years, we had store-bought pie instead of a homemade one.

-that, also in light of past years, we went with six bottles of wine instead of just four.

-that I got shooed out of the kitchen just prior to cleanup.

-I got enough leftovers to last me until I can afford to go grocery shopping next.

-that now Thanksgiving is over I can demonstrate my love (obsession) for Christmas music unabashedly, with unbounded enthusiasm. Sorry roomies.

-for my family and friends. Ok, I had to add it, but they deserve it and there's a story behind it. During dessert, in an epic whipped cream-eating battle with my youngest brother I felt a laugh bubbling up mid-turn and couldn't recover. I spewed a large (gigantic) mouthful of whipped cream across the table and blasted my family, the centerpiece, wine glasses and all other unfortunate matter in my wake with a blizzard of aerosol shrapnel and after the initial shocked silence, I was honored with applause and amusement rather than being shunned for the rest of the evening, so thank you, thank you, thank you.

Gratefully Yours,

Stacy

Ode to The Farmer’s Market

We are gathered here today to mourn the passing of a dear friend. The Boulder Farmer's Market took its last breath on the first of the month and will not resurface until next April. For those of us who dutifully attended each and every Saturday morning gathering, it will be a great loss of unmentionable magnitude. A gap in the day that serves as a constant reminder of our past jollies by the creek—a happy crowd, a multitude of restaurants offering up their local fare, the makings of a new favorite recipe, the free samples…Oh, the free samples! A cornucopia of granolas, fresh-pressed apple juices, an abundance of olive oils dips with plenty of bread to try them all, and cheese for every type. Indeed, the end of the Farmer's Market signals the beginning of the cold, dreary days ahead. Winter months that won't be brightened by fresh, organic produce; instead, Chilean imports will have to suffice—and I don't quite know how I feel about jet-lagged fruit. Our last ditch effort at homegrown joy exists in our miniature herb gardens on the window ledge over the kitchen sink. So now we must sit and wait out the next five and a half months of agony, sighing as we mindlessly test grocery store cucumbers for ripeness and trying to enjoy our overly seasoned, herbed dinners, with a small glimmer of hope twinkling in the back of our mind. For the Market will return, triumphant in the spring and we will realize that absence does in fact, make the heart grow fonder.