I was up at my usual 6 AM on Thanksgiving morning to tend to the dogs and my dumps, and then it was a quick cup of coffee and out the door into the dark to get to the trails before the annual Turkey trot trail race kicked off at 9 AM.
I was sort of pissed about the race happening because I really wanted to attempt it this year! But the last time I Googled it (pre-autumn mental meltdown), all I could find was the 2023 event info. Then, when I woke up this morning, I wanted to double-check, and NOW there was the damn info. Go figure. Perhaps it’s a sign from the Run Dogs that I’m not ready yet.
I got to the trail in the faintest of early morning light and was STILL not the first person there! There were roughly 5 or 6 cars belonging to race organizers and chumps like me who wanted to get their Thanksgiving miles in before a day of sloth, beer, and football (the good kind, where your team shits the bed late and draws 2-2!).
As I plodded down the trail, crunching loudly on the frozen dirt, I started to do the Mile Math in my head. And since I suck at pretty much any kind of math, it took me a good mile or so to come to the conclusion that there was no way I was going to get 5+ miles in before the trotters started trotting whilst holding back their morning coffee trots as I was doing. Damn.
It was all good, though, because I knew I could definitely get 4+ in, which would allow me to hit my 25-mile goal on Friday morning.
As I hit four miles and crossed the river on the suspension bridge, I could see there was now an inflatable start/finish line banner up at the trailhead, and when I got to the small parking lot, it was filled with roughly 78 more cars than on a normal morning, and the other lots were filling fast. There was also a long line of freezing-cold runners trying to stay warm as they waited to use the outhouse and drop a pre-race dookie. Been there and done that WAY too many times in my (bike) racing days! Also, note to self; do NOT use the outhouse by the parking lot for a month or so.
I got 4.11 miles in and need less than 5.50 to hit my goal tomorrow, which will totally happen unless I pass on to the other side during the night.
In other news, no one cares about me (even me); we came to a compromise on Thanksgiving dinner! [insert sound of polite clapping here]
When we took a vote yesterday, B was super accommodating and said, “If you want to make traditional Thanksgiving dinner, go for it. I don’t mind it.” And Wifey doesn’t care at all as long as she gets some sort of potato in her system (the Irish blood is strong in that one).
So, I ended up with this as our Thanksgiving menu:
- Baked chicken breasts (first marinated in olive oil, crushed garlic, white wine vinegar, tyme, oregano, salt, and pepper for an hour or so).
- My amazing whipped potatoes/crap jar gravy.
- Corn (buttered and seasoned).
- Canned Cranberry Sauce (Brennan and I don’t like it (no one should), but Wifey wanted it even though she can only eat about a tablespoon of it, but 89ยข well spent to bring some joy).
- Well-seasoned buttered egg noodles.
- Sugar-free puddin’ pie that Wifey made the night before that I didn’t eat because I fear sugar-free chemical shits (they’re the worst). It looked great, though!
The menu and the day were great, and B was happy and content to hang out with me and Wifey as we (I) watched a smidge of the Lions and then Spurs.
After the game, I made dinner while Wifey and B watched some Ted Lasso reruns, and everything went down perfectly. I would TOTALLY opt for making the marinated chicken breasts over a turkey in the future! They would have been amazing on the grill, but “I ain’t got no ‘pane,” and the grill needs to be cleaned after two years of neglect.
I couldn’t stop thinking of my dental hygienist bitching to me about cooking the other day. I was like, I cooked that whole meal in less than 1.5 hours (not including marinade) and had a blast doing it with my crew nearby.
I owe “Thanks” for my ability to cook for my family to my late mother, who, while disabled by MS and unable to cook meals any longer, would guide and instruct me from her motorized cart when I was a teenager: “Flip the chicken now, lower the heat on the potatoes, add more flour to the gravy, don’t overcook the pasta, stir the sauce.”
I’m also thankful she never made me make the horrific 80s-era crockpot recipe of hot dogs, potatoes, and peppers that she experimented with from time to time. Oh, the culinary joys of Reagan-era economics.
OK, enough of this bullshit; I gotta get my miles in.
Later.