Bloated with porridge

When we were in college, thanks to a very long and probably boring story involving a theatre director and a play we did that was set in the twelfth century, “bloated with porridge” became a running joke. “Oh my gosh, that was six pieces of pizza. I am totally bloated with porridge.”

Tonight I put on Thanksgiving a week early, because we wanted to do something with our friends and to celebrate Zuzu’s first birthday before everyone goes over the river and through the woods next week.

The tally: about fifty thousand calories of AWESOME.

– 20-lb brined turkey (free range all-natural)

– 5 lb french bread and corn bread stuffing

– Maple syrup butternut squash puree

– Baked sweet potatoes

– Mashed potatoes (made with heavy cream, butter, and cream cheese)

– Corn and wild rice casserole (with eggs and another two sticks of butter, natch)

– Tossed salad with cheese

– Great-grandma’s sticky rolls

– Great-great-aunt’s penny rolls

– Green bean casserole

– Pumpkin cake soaked in cream

– Coffee, tea, more cream, more sugar.

I cooked it all over 12 hours in my tiny kitchen, then wrapped it in towels, piled it around, under, and on top of kids, and transported it to the church’s function hall. It fed 22 people to the point of leaning back in our folding chairs and moaning, then making manly (womanly? personly?) efforts to shove another piece of cake in while the various children watched movies in the other room. Then we packed plates and plates of leftovers to send home with the grad students and families, packed our shocking amounts of empty dishes and the last pan of pumpkin cake into the car, and came home.

Pics to come. Right now I am too bloated with porridge to contemplate anything but sleep.

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