Ah. Another Thanksgiving has come and gone. Another Thanksgiving with Jeff's family. A family that loves their giblet gravy. With the hard-boiled eggs in it. And the giblets.
This story begins a few days before Thanksgiving, when I loudly proclaimed that the mere words, "giblet gravy" initiated my gagging and retching sequence. Apparently, this was a somewhat astonishing news to Jeff, who stared at me in disbelief and questioned my sanity for the next four days. He waxed nostalgic about the merits of giblet gravy over stuffing, over turkey, over pumpkin pie... Then the rat bastard threatened to pour it over my entire Thanksgiving dinner. To force me to love it as he does.
I had nightmares about that threat. And I believe that threat is the subconcious root of my Thanksgiving Day behavior, particularly the part where I let it slip to Jeff's family that he thinks Rachel Ray is pretty, but has "skeeter bites" for boobies. (Insert visual of Jeff's dad choking on his Chex Party Mix here).
Anyway, Jeff and I decided that we are thankful to have survived without any other embarrassing incidents, even though we both nearly lost control of ourselves when Jeff's grandmother offered me giblet gravy first thing after the prayer. I didn't even have anything else on my plate yet.
But you know what I am most thankful for? I'm thankful that I don't have to dodge that gravy-that-shall-not-be-named again at Christmas (no offense to all you giblet gravy lovers out there), because we will be blessedly ensconced at my parents in Colorado eating a dinner of Mom's homemade chicken fried steak. With cream gravy. Amen.
