Hostest with Mostest
Jennifer Flaten

Let me just say that Thanksgiving seems a very long way away in January. It doesn't help that January is historically a boring month.

There are no parties and all the cookies are gone, so planning a get together that is months away, many, many months away, is a nice little distraction to pass a gloomy day.

This explains the wild promises I made to host this year's Thanksgiving feast. I was obviously suffering from a bad reaction to fruitcake. Hey, it works for the stars, why can't it work for me?

Well, it doesn't matter why I volunteered. It is mostly likely because I am a fruitcake. As evidenced by the fact that I jumped up and waved my hand around shouting, "Pick me! Pick me!" when it was time to select this year's host.

At the time I volunteered myself I assumed that either I would be dead by the coming Thanksgiving (thus unable to host) or that the Mayan calendar was off by a year or so and we would all be dead (thus eliminating the holiday altogether).

Alas neither of my predictions came true, another reason why I don't bet on the ponies.

Anyway, that is how I found myself pawing through a cavernous cold case looking for the perfect turkey-for the record the "perfect" turkey doesn't exist.

Much like Goldilocks, I found something wrong with each turkey. From the 50lb monstrosity, where would I store it, to the ten-pound "turkey," which I am sure was a chicken with an identity crisis. I discarded them all.

I did finally find a bird that would do. He is currently residing in my deep freeze, but eventually I will have to haul him up and defrost him.

Oh boy! I can't wait to hear the kids ask me if the giant iceberg of bird defrosted, yet, every time they open the fridge, which is many, many times a day.

Can I just state for the record, that putting a procrastinator in charge of the holiday meal is asking for trouble.

As we all know, I should have purchased many of the supplies I needed for this shindig in July, you try finding a cute turkey tablecloth 4 days before Thanksgiving.

I do have small children, so the entertainment portion of the day is taken care of, who doesn't like kids in construction paper Pilgrim hats.

Okay, maybe a significant portion of the world isn't keen on a dramatic retelling of the landing on Plymouth Rock, but as the song says, it's my party and I'll bore you if I want to.

Luckily, I also have said children available to help me spruce up the house, after all 99% of the mess is directly attributable to them. Don't worry, it isn't child labor, if you are using them to get the house ready for a holiday, I checked.

Moreover, this gives me an excuse to put the new stove through its paces. I admit I am a little worried; no one likes their leaf on the family tree to note that they are the one who poisoned everyone at Thanksgiving.

I am just happy I have the damn turkey. I can fake everything else, especially if I ply the guests with enough wine.