the century mark

I see that we have hit 100 posts here at Chewing the Fat. What an accomplishment! I am very proud of us. I am saluting us. Of course, I am no thinner than I was when we started this blog, but that's okay, right? It's the process that counts, yes?

Hope is the thing without butter and cream added to it. Forgive me Ms. Dickinson, but in this 21st century, "the thing with feathers" does not cut it. Hope, for me, is one moment at a time, conquering an hour wherein I do not consume that pan of brownies, or (alone), head for the local burrito joint and mosh on a plate full of carnitas. It is making it to the end of the day without hiding in my kitchen, out of ear shot and vision from my wife, scraping the bottom of the casserole dish and savoring every little piece of cheesy fond. It is believing that someday soon, I can get back on the scale and not have a nervous breakdown when the digital numbers flash a weight that makes me yearn for repeated bulemic episodes.

I ate enough for a small village over the Thanksgiving holiday. I am still digesting, one week later. Most of the left overs are gone, but some still remain. Nothing that I can't ignore though. The dastardly mac-n-cheese that I made from these leftovers (turkey, green-bean-&-mushroom casserole, greyure, parm, milk, elbow mac all layered and baked to brown perfection) is finally gone. S. ate the last of it two nights ago. No more lemon cake (a friend who was here for Thanksgiving was also celebrating a birthday, so of course I had to make a cake), no more mashed potatoes, no more stuffing. A little cranberry sauce here, a few turkey pieces there. I think our turkey carcass is still in the cooler out back, but it's 12 degrees outside and I don't feel like freezing my ass off to go dump the boney thing in the alley. It's not like it's going anywhere or is going to start to smell. It's wrapped in five plastic bags and I've already picked it clean. I don't think there will be any turkey stock this year. I need to leave this holiday behind, make it a distant memory.

Hope is believing that I can handle Christmas a little better than I did Thanksgiving.

Hope

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune--without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.