We’re full from the turkey, sure, but mostly all of the wine and the mashed potatoes and—because this is what we do here—little hot dogs wrapped in puff pastry and pickles and late-night kalua.

My grandmother, of course, had had too much wine. We know this from her headache, yes. But we also know this from last night when she thumped her 82-year old shoulder against the fridge and shouted at nobody in particular:

“So what if I’m drunk! I’m drunk and I like it! So don’t tell me what to do!”

And now maybe we feel guilty, because we most certainly did not.


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