Tell Me Again Why We are Driving Nine Hours to See People We Both Hate Spiced Pumpkin Pie

  • 1 cramped car which is somehow filled to capacity by two small overnight bags and a leaky cooler
  • 1 ½ cups seething resentment
  • 1 dog you were asked to leave at home who is being boarded at a daily rate that makes your eye twitch
  • 2 Tbs I thought you said we were just going to do a quiet Thanksgiving at home this year
  • 1 ¾ cups don’t start with me, just don’t
  • 10 minutes racing through the aisles of a seedy gas station convenience store off of I-95 just as it is closing
  • 1 pumpkin pie purchased with wadded up dollar bills you were saving for tolls
  • A pinch of guilt—who are we kidding—a pound

You Didn’t Tell Me Your New Girlfriend was a Fucking Vegan Quick ‘N’ Easy Green Bean Casserole

  • 1 cup bile
  • 1 16-oz bag of green beans discovered in the back of the freezer
  • Three cloves of garlic, smashed with extra hostility
  • 1 ton of fucking nerve
  • 2 cans cream of mushroom soup—relax, it’s probably not real cream
  • 1 cup milk. (If she asks, say it was soy)
  • 1 Tbs –fine, tell her the truth. I don’t care. Hopefully she likes canned cranberry sauce
  • 2 tsp whatever spices and shit are on hand, we don’t have time for this, there are normal guests to feed, whom we’ve actually met before, by the way

Throw all ingredients into a casserole dish and suddenly remember to turn the oven to 350. Top with those canned crunchy onions we still have from Thanksgiving two years ago.

Bake for 60 minutes, or until you get the chance to sweetly tell Vegan Girlfriend to use her stick-bug arms to go and get her special casserole out of the oven, it’s finally time for everyone to fucking sit down already.

Everyone Get the Hell Out of the Kitchen Right Now Before I Kill All of You Cranberry-Orange Dressing

  • 1 orange, roughly chopped
  • 1 five minute lecture on how I specifically asked you to get two oranges and now all the stores are closed, thanks a lot
  • 1 Tbs shit we don’t have that either!
  • 1 bag fresh cranberries, washed and the soft brown ones picked out and tossed on the kitchen counter which looks like a war zone anyway
  • 2 cups sugar

Put cranberries, sugar and orange pieces into the last clean saucepan, then realize all the burners on the stove are currently occupied. Step outside and have a cigarette until your hands stop shaking. Push Cousin Beth’s simmering gravy aside and hijack her burner. That’s what she gets for having her wedding two weeks before yours. Boil cranberries, sugar and orange pieces until they turn into bubbling, liquefied magma, kind of like how it feels inside your pounding skull. Pour carefully into a serving bowl, almost scalding yourself when Uncle Pete accidentally jostles your elbow. Wait patiently until the ringing in your ears subsides, along with the overwhelming urge to strangle Uncle Pete.

After dinner, start clearing the table in a huff when you realize hardly anyone even bothered to try your homemade cranberry dressing, because apparently they all prefer Aunt Judy’s store bought Cranberry Sauce a la Can.

Fucking Vegan New Girlfriend, I’m looking in your direction.