Oh man, the pain. Sidesplitting pain. A slave to tradition. Survival skill. Oh, the pain.

Bode fed me real good. (Note: Bode has the thickest handshake in the Northwest. That handshake could kill a man who isn’t prepared for the pounds-per-square-inch experienced in that deathgrip of grips.)

I am in the throes of one of the worst Thanksgiving hangovers ever experienced in my 29 years. I feel like I could sustain for a month on the mountain of nourishment gorged this afternoon.

I spent the big day at Susan and Bode’s house. Bode’s parents were over for the big event too. The cooking began last night, with bird prep high on the list, amongst other preliminary operations.

My mouth was watering. Literally. Bode kept me well lubricated with ale, which didn’t do much to battle the anticipation of the meal. Once the gravy thickened we made our way to the dining room table. The turkey was perfect. Man, I could go on and on about the turkey. The mashed potatoes were whipped just right. Beans. Gravy. Rolls. The chow was washed down with cold ice water. I did two good-sized plates and had to throw in the towel. I finished off the feast with some pie (pumpkin and apple/walnut… from scratch!) and had to remove myself from the eating station.

This is where I began to sober up. The magnitude of it all hit somewhere around this point. That pile of food had me moanin’ and wheezin’. I needed air, I needed space, I needed peace and quiet. I had a digestive battle ahead of me… a gastric Hamburger Hill of sorts.

It’ll get ugly, but I think I’m gonna make it.

Special thanks to Bode and Susan for having me. Good eats. Good people.