Thanksgiving is always a tad offbeat around the DogHaus. Turkey is rarely on the menu, though as an omnivore I have nothing against consuming them. As Freewheeling Franklin once said during an argument between Phineas and Fat Freddy, “Naw, it’s okay to eat turkeys. That’s just God’s way of punishing them for being so stupid.”
I’m just naturally contrary, I suppose. If everyone else is going that way, well, I’m going this way. Nothing personal. It just looks less crowded over there.
So today Herself and I, joined by the Sis and Bro’-in Law, will enjoy chicken cacciatore over fettuccine with sides of arugula with roasted red pepper, green beans in a soy-sesame seed-garlic sauce, and ciabatta with dipping oil. Raspberry cobbler for dessert.
And wine, of course. Not Italian (there he goes again). We have a French white (Domaine du Tariquet 2008), a Spanish rosé (Protocolo 2007) and a couple of French reds (Domaine des Rozets Coteaux du Tricastin 2007 and Georges Duboeuf Beaujolais Nouveau 2009).
Here’s hoping you and yours have lots to be thankful for today. Miss Mia Sopaipilla certainly does. For starters, she’s thankful to have a fine Motorola DSL modem to sit upon on chilly November mornings.
Mad Blog Media 
We’ve got a nice 14lb in the oven, potatoes (mashed na sweet), pickles, corn, olives etc. A nice WASP Thanksgiving dinner for the family. As Miles Standish said “I loves me some turkey”. Happy T-Day to all.
O’G et al: What a country! Happy Thanksgiving to all!
Dinner’s et, the dishes done, the kinfolks gone — a nice, low-key holiday meal, if you don’t count the preparation, which gets a bit hectic in our teensy kitchen with me on main and side dishes and Herself on salad, dessert and cleanup.
I would give a healthy organ (not one of mine, but somebody’s) for a medium-sized kitchen that gives us room to work. More prep’ space and a bigger range for starters. This 30-inch GE glasstop electric is OK for daily duty, but it gets awful crowded real fast when you’re whipping up a sauce, cooking beans, boiling pasta water, simmering a cacciatore and baking a cobbler all at once. And every horizontal space in the place gets covered with the casualties of cookery — cutting boards, knives, bowls, etc. — unless Herself is trailing around behind me like a shoveler following the circus elephants.
Still, we are on top of the earth, eating rather than being eaten, and thus all is well.
Burp. And to all a good night.
Patrick, I too would like a bigger kitchen. Lucky for both of us our mates don’t have the extra large label in their garments. My last wife’s a** had it’s own zip code, so collaborative cooking was tough. My kingdom for more counter space.
It’s my booty that’s the issue in our teensy kitchen, not Herself’s (one of her family nicknames is Tiny Heinie). She has to remain alert and agile as The Large Irish Ass lumbers about lest she be body-checked down the basement stairs or out an open window.
We’ve pretty much done what we can to expand counter space with wheeled butcher-block cabinetry, but you can only do much with the kitchen in a 70-year-old, 1,100-square-foot house when you lack both home-improvement skills and money.
I just finished my last bottle of Ripple