An autobiographical story by Swanky
Well, boys and girls, another year has begun it's assent into winter, and Thanksgiving has once again snuck up on our friendly neighborhood procrastinator, Swanky. Yes, here it is, Thanksgiving Eve (which really ought to be called "Run-around-as-frantic-as-the-turkey-that's-about-to-be-cooked Eve") and Swanky is hard at work in the kitchen. Cleaning the oven, baking pies and cakes and cookies, peeling and chopping all manner of root vegetables, and chugging on her Smirnoff Ice as though it were bottled water and she a white man in Mexico.
Not an unusual sight, at all, this yearly dance among clouds of flour. Though, Swanky's language seems to be a bit more colorful this year as she washes and rewashes the few pieces of bakeware available to her. Seems her kitchen is not nearly as well stocked as she is accustomed to. It is certain that she misses her mother more tonight than she has all year. Still, her fluffy Boston Cream Pie has not fallen, and her Pumpkin Pie is as aromatic as ever. Seems she has not lost her touch in verbally assaulting her food into compliance, even if she has lost a pan or two.
Or more importantly, her two favorite blue glass, unfluted Pyrex pie plates.
Still, she heartily raises her bottle, toasts a quiet "Here's to you, Gran," and pulls the dead foul out of the fridge. Setting to vigorously ripping the neck from the spine of the once-feathered creature, one can hear the low growl of a woman in the heat of battle...
...And the language of a god fearing sailor.
HAPPY THANKSGIVING, ALL!
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