A Meal Divided Does Not Stand

Each post thanksgiving morning

we reach for GERD meds

for, knowing overeating’s warnings,

our stomach overrules our head.

Our bodies are certainly not meant

to such highly caloric density.

So why is good judgment lent

to this overindulged propensity?

We have been taught from the cradle

the hallmark of  holidays are bounteous food,

and since food is Thanksgiving’s ladle,

“stuffing” it in is right and good.

But guts, not used to culinary monsoon,

will complain  in acute bilious state!

So out comes the pharmacy boon:

acid reducers’ to equilibrate stomach quakes.

And, when meds cure, come around noon,

we will perk up and forage for yummy dishes,

forgetting the discomfort of early morning hours

in the delight of second day annual wishes.

For who can resist the culinary power

that intensified leftovers to the palate make?

Only the monsoon will be a gentle shower

and dinner, a light noshing date.

I have post Thanksgiving Hangover.  The bloated feeling the someone has mistakenly thought I was a turkey and stuffed me until I am  overflowing; the uncontrolled regurgitation of last night’s  repast;  the acidic, slightly nauseous lethargy;  the sick wish that I could get rid of a little of it; the idea that drinking a cup of coffee is a torture device to a tummy grown sour and grumpy.  As an alcohol novice too often says to the toilet after the first binge:

“Why, oh why did I drink That Much?  DID I drink that much?  Boy it sure didn’t take a lot to make me THIS SICK!”

Just substitute the drink for eat, and you have my mantra for this morning, except I must add: “Why oh why did I eat that piece of pie when I was overfilled?”

It is a question that millions of persons will ask, perspiring with post- Thanksgiving gluttony, all morning long.  But my journey into wet burp illness is a little more complicated, as the  “bastardized”  famous quote in my title suggests.  I had TWO thanksgiving dinners, and not by choice.  I have the (mostly) good luck of living with my parents across the street and my in-laws about a mile away.

Yes, I hear the gasp of horror from some of you.

They are lovely, rarely interfere, and help out in a hundred different ways. But this Thanksgiving was tough in that my brother was at my mom’s and my brother-in-law was at my in-laws.  We rarely see either, one living in Iowa and one in Chicago.  Both wanted our attendance.  I asked for a combined dinner at my mom’s (who has the room for 20 persons, and is an excellent cook), but my in-laws were firm:

We Will Have Our Thanksgiving Feast At Our House

So we went from one dinner (my mom’s, and no dish can be forsaken without pangs of regret), scarfed it down, said “See you later”, then ran over to my in-laws (who had changed the dinner date and were done). By then, I couldn’t look at food but, feeling a little guilty, I was shanghaied into dessert.  I slowly stuffed some down,  with deep cleansing breaths, taking one for the polite team, and left as soon as it was not rude.  At the end of the binge, I simply crawled into bed, felt a little mis-used, and firmly told myself I will for now pick one or the other and not go through that again…….

And later, I re-lived my dinner over and over and over. And I don’t think I am alone, I am sure that millions over the country have family close, who will not get all together, leaving the peanut butters to jump from one side of the bread to the other.  So while I am thankful for my family, great food, good wine and (wishful) good health, I am wishing that one of my in-laws will leave the area next year.

So, surprise, my Thanksgiving rhyme is firmly themed around my post Thanksgiving tummy.  Smile, and WHO STOLE the TUMS?


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