Desperately Seeking Thanksgiving

Generally speaking, I would rather gouge my right eye out than travel on Thanksgiving weekend. Add to that equation a trip to Port Authority to pack into a PeterPan bus, and you've got yourself one helluva doozy.

On the contrary, spending Thanksgiving alone in my cozy apartment in Brooklyn, with a pizza pie, a bottle of wine, and my cats (although normally would sound lovely) just will not do. Not when I can perfectly picture the hubbub in Aunt Nancy's kitchen, the sound of kids playing, the dog tap-dancing under the stove waiting for a bit of grub to hit the floor, and the sounds of football fans and wine being corked. Not to mention the savory smells of roasting goodies, gravy, and apple pie.

So, it is on behalf of loved ones, fall skies, stuffed bellies, empty bottles, a round of pass-the-trash, loosened belts, roaring fireplaces, endless piles of dishes, laughter, hugs, and the giving of thanks, that I make this horribly long and painful trek to Massachusetts to celebrate and share Thanksgiving with my family. I wouldn't miss it for the world.