I Refuse To Cook For Thanksgiving, So Bite Me, Birds

I'm on the Cape this week, visiting in-laws and enjoying one of the local B&Bs. I am also not cooking...followers of this blog know all about my dealings with the Thanksgiving Curse, being spat on by gravy packets and frantically microvaving slices of undercooked turkey breast meat, and getting lost in my own town while shopping for the big T-day...the horror is unending.
Well, this year the Curse is the Old Yarmouth Inn's problem, suckahs! All I need to worry about is figuring out if I'm eating turkey or turkey, or turkey (I'm a traditionalist, I s'pose). And sometime tomorrow night I'll get absurdly hungry and insist my husband take me to a D'Angelos for a turkey sandwich. And I'll sign some stock at the Hyannis B&N. And find and devour another sandwich. Because that's what the holidays are all about: me stuffing myself until all I can do is flop on the floor and moan, "No...more...turkey."
Mmm...turkey...by which I mean Happy Thanksgiving!
(Is it weird that after blogging this I really want some turkey?)