. . . is a phrase that describes your average home on Thanksgiving. Near-explosive Crock-Pots, feuding relatives, loser football teams, and rotting gourds (hey, it's happened) can conspire to create an atmosphere that's more Griswalds than Waltons.
That's why there's pie.
And for me, cowboy boots. Something about this rustic, homespun footwear just says harvest. So here I am wearing my favorite pair to do my prairie proud. What's more, I upped the ante with these leather-look-but-felt barrettes, then threw in a faux cameo brooch for good measure.
If the barrettes represent the Native Americans, then the brooch is pure Puritan. I know, I know; those vanguards of vanilla wouldn't be caught dead in something so gaudy. But I couldn't very well make a buckle, and it
is the kind of trinket that would be at home on the ruffly blouses of the Aldens' tea-sipping successors. So, barrettes and brooches, battling it out . . . No, that's wrong, too. No violence here, just a joining of styles and peoples over a spread of mouthwatering carbs and one big, tasteless turkey.
It's all about the sides, my friends. You can't spell gluttony without gluten. Or either of them -- or Griswalds -- without a "g."
Which is important. Because the Griswalds are more fun than the Waltons.