Need to diet? Pop into your friendly neighborhood bakery today!

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Mornin’ all.

I opened my email this morning and found an ad from Aldi with the subject line, “Save for Celiac Awareness Month.”

Celiac. Awareness. Month.

Now, I’m not saying celiac disease shouldn’t be researched, and certainly the folks who suffer should have hope for a cure. But that’s not what this is about, is it? Aldi is not, in any way, being altruistic. Aldi isn’t donating for a cure. They aren’t trying to legitimately raise awareness. They are a grocery store with an abundance of gluten free products they need to unload. This isn’t about helping folks with legit gluten issues. It’s about selling gluten free products to the 99% of the population who does not have celiac disease.

I hate this kind of bullshit. Corporate “let’s pretend we care so you’ll keep forking over the cash” mentality.

There’s a new law on the books with which we need to comply at the bakery. In an effort to pretend we care, we now need to display the calorie count for all single serve items. Instead of posting an ugly, tacky menu, our company has chosen to print new display tags to put next to each item.

Now, I’m not saying it’s bad to inform your customers. I just don’t think my customers want to know.

Real talk. No one’s buying things from the bakery because they’re on a health kick. No one sees a cupcake and thinks it’s an acceptable stand in for a stick of celery in their diet plan. People know the shit I sell is unhealthy. They know. And when they are looking for a treat, they do not care.

I’m not opposed to having the information available if people ask. I just don’t see why the government has made it our job to prominently shame people who want a confectionery pick me up.

The one plus is the new fun game I can play now. “Guess How Bad It Really Is.” I don’t have a game show theme song for it yet, but it really has provided me a bit of fun to ask fellow employees, “Wanna guess how many calories this puppy has?”

We sell a type of fancy chocolate cupcake that has raspberry filling and chocolate everything else. It’s very pretty, a real eye catcher, and even though I’ve never had one, raspberries and chocolate?? How could it NOT be utterly delicious?

980.

980 calories for ONE cupcake.

In fairness, it would be difficult to get a whole cupcake down in one sitting. They’re not your average cupcake. They’re huge. Still, I’ve had sad days where I could, in theory, polish the whole thing off if I were so inclined.

We can also play the game in reverse. I tell the calorie count and give three options and folks need to try and guess which one fits. Let’s do one, shall we?

480 calories, and your choices are: single serve cheesecake with raspberries, small rosette cupcake with buttercream, or large stuffed cannoli.

Come on. Timer’s almost up.

If you said, “Cannoli,” no way, sucker! That puppy’s about two hundred calories more! It’s the raspberry cheesecake.

Isn’t this fun?

Guess what’s the worst thing we sell? I’ll give you the total: 1920. One THOUSAND, nine hundred twenty calories for ONE single serve item. That’s an entire day’s worth of calories in one treat.

So what do you think it could possibly be?

Keep in mind, we are a full service bakery. We sell everything from rolls to chocolate dipped strawberries. *tick**tock**tick**tock*

Time’s up! The worst item we sell is…

…you know what? I’m not going to tell you. A guessing game is only fun if you actually guess.

Aside from the new labels of shame, we also offer pamphlets about healthy eating. This one really gets me. I understand offering the nutrition facts about the food we sell. I think they are being very heavy handed and Big Brother-y in the way they’re going about it, but I get it. I do. I think the information about the food we put in our bodies should be available if we care to read it.

The pamphlets, though…Come on. I’m seriously expected to hand someone a cake with one hand and a pamphlet on what they SHOULD be eating with the other? Are you kidding me with this pandering bullshit? Who are you trying to fool? I do not give a rat’s ass about the diets of my customers. Not a whit. If they want to eat a 1920 calorie *redacted for purposes of a game show*, why should I be the one to stop them?

News flash: I’m not their mother. And I shouldn’t be expected to act like one. I make cakes. I make them for people to buy. I’m certainly not going to turn around and say, “Oh, you fell for my trap, you fool! Let me take a minute to educate you on how much of a stupid fucking lard ass you really are…”

I have a couple customers who will ask, “What’s the healthiest thing you sell here?” I always point to the produce section right behind them and say, “We’ve got some great apples and celery on sale this week.” When people ask for the “diabetic friendly” or “healthier” type of icing instead of buttercream (it’s a non-dairy whipped topping), I always point out that NO icing is diabetic friendly and that it is in no way healthier than buttercream.

So I do care if they’re coming at me with misinformation. But, in the end, if they get the unhealthy shit, *shrug*. It’s not my body. I honestly don’t care if they get five *1920 calorie items* and down them in a sad afternoon binge watching The Office for the fiftieth time. I don’t give a rat’s ass. Eat what you want. You’re an adult!

Look, I get that people should be able to be aware of the bad shit they’re putting in their bodies. I guess I just have a problem with a company who SELLS THOSE VERY ITEMS pretending to care. The ONLY reason we’re posting the facts is because the state says we have to. We’re a fucking bakery. The foundation of everything we make is a combination of fat, sugar, and carbs. Of COURSE our shit is unhealthy, and it’s pretty damn hypocritical to be the ones making the unhealthy shit only to turn around and shame the customers who buy it.

…is what I would say if I didn’t care about losing my job. So, uh, you know, great job, Corporate Higher Ups who might be reading this. I love working for a company that cares so much about its customers.

“Nice save, Bethie.”

I thought so.

Thus concludes a quick Musing for Wednesday, May 3, 2017. Holy FUCK it’s MAY. Aw hell. Remember all that cleaning I had to do? I STILL HAVE TO DO IT. Off I go…I’ve got a mop bucket calling my name…

I can declare part of a store a sovereign nation if I just plant a flag, right?

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Mornin’ all, and a Happy Easter to those who celebrate!

…and a Happy Regular-But-Still-Beautiful Sunday to those who don’t!

It was a long week at work, filled with creepy bunny cakes and even creepier bunny cake buying customers. I’ve said before that holidays have customer themes, a collective mood shared by the holiday shoppers. Thanksgiving is friendly. Christmas is rushed. Easter? Turns out Easter’s mood is “douchey.”

I was not expecting that.

I had more flat out rude customers this week alone than I’ve had since I started there. Everyone wanted what they wanted, no matter if it was something we sold or not. They wanted it, and not only did they want it NOW NOW NOW, they were totally willing to make a scene if we couldn’t get it.

It was like a week long temper tantrum.

Ah, but peppered throughout there were just enough happy old ladies trying to give out unwrapped hard candies in gratitude for help (true story!), lost husbands who almost cried with relief when you found them the item their wife sent them to get, and people who wished a heartfelt “blessed Easter”, to make me not quit and keep me from shoving a creepy bunny cake up someone’s nose.

Customer service…it’s never boring.

Yesterday my store manager totally ruined my plans for a coup.

It’s spring, so our general merchandise department sells lawn furniture. In a grocery store. Because…? And I’m not talking just a couple folding chairs. I mean, everything you need to have a bangin’ backyard BBQ. From the chairs to the grill, patio sets, umbrellas, tiki torches to keep away the mosquitoes, huge wicker couches, and even pop up screen houses.

They set up a huge display of these items right in front of my department. And they went all out, too. They totally staged it on top of a stack of pallets to look like someone’s back yard. They put up one of the screen houses, set up a wicker furniture ensemble, a table, a grill, some tiki torches…

Now, I said it was a rough week. As I stood there icing the creepy ass bunnies, a plan of escape formed. I was going to rally my fellow bakery employees and claim the display as our back yard. I had it all worked out. I’d bribe the managers with margaritas, and anyone who objected would get a good stainless steel BBQ tong-ing (also on sale this week for only $3.99! Wow what a price! Hurry, supplies won’t last!).

I think we have a mole in the bakery, because yesterday, the planned day of attack, my store manager decided to make my dreams of an indoor backyard BBQ much more difficult. He went and put huge stacks of plastic lawn chairs around the display, blocking my entrance up the pallets to my work haven. He kept looking at me while he did it, too. Giving me the eyeball, as if he knew my plans and felt triumphant for thwarting them.

He thinks he won? Bitch, please. After some consideration, I think he accidentally played right into my hand.

First, we have to root out the mole. Someone squealed, I just know it. I’ll find out who and ice them.

…and I mean literally ice them…with icing. I’ll just fill that yap trap with delicious buttercream and they’ll be too busy enjoying a tasty treat to blab.

Then, we attack in the early hours. We move before the other departments are set up and watching, when it’s just night crew filling frozen all the way at the other end of the store. We stealthily gather supplies, then move the stacks out lawn chairs of the way long enough to take over the screen house, before pulling them in tighter and using them to our advantage. What at first seemed to be an obstacle will end up being our fortification.

It’s brilliant. We’ll already have the advantage of higher ground because the thing’s set up really high on pallets. The stacks of chairs will be our ramparts, and we can just pelt anyone who’s stupid enough to try and breach our defenses with flaming marshmallows.

It’s a rock solid plan. I see no way for it to fail. And then when we’ve gained control, I’ll invite you over for a fancy umbrella drink and some burgers.

Doesn’t that sound a lot better than work?

Thus concludes a very quick Musing for Easter Sunday if you’re inclined, or Regular Sunday if you’re not, April 16, 2017. I’m thinking this might be a record short one. I just have a ton of things to do this morning, but wanted to say hey. Everyone have a great day, no matter what your plans are or are not! And if you do end up in a legit back yard BBQ and the good times are topped off with a few drinks, don’t be an ass. Let someone else drive.

Any Les Mis fans out there?

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*a light shines on a lone baker, center stage* *soft music begins to play*

One day more.

Another pie, another past-er-y,

On this never ending road to feed my fam-i-ly.

These customers who spend their dimes

Will surely come another time

One day more…

Mornin’ all.

Today is my tenth day straight at work. Tomorrow, I get a day off. I’m feeling a tad bit punchy, if you couldn’t tell.

Though, to be honest, isn’t starting the day off with an epic musical routine always the goal?

A coworker got injured while one of our Janes-of-all-Trades started a two week vacation. We are already short handed as it is, so it’s very hard to absorb the blow of someone missing work from being hurt.

I’ll mix the cream up fresh today

How can I pipe if it has parted?

Tomorrow I’ll be worlds away,

And yet right now my shift’s not started…

You see, we knew someone was about to get hurt. We’ve gone way too long without injury.

There’s a curse on our bakery.

No, don’t laugh. It’s true! How else would you explain the fact that in the not quite year I’ve been there, we’ve had four major injuries I can think of, if you include pregnancy. Which, let’s face it, you should.

If I worked in a large bakery, that would be a pretty fair number. Humans tend to be clumsy and inept. I do not work in a large bakery, though. I work with 7 other people. That’s it. Four major health-related reasons for missing work is a LOT in that short time span.

One more day not at my home,

One more day not in my jammies.

What a nap I might have known,

But they say they need me there…

My working theory is that someone got pissed off about an order they placed. While we do a damn fine job, mistakes happen. Or, more often, people don’t understand what they’re actually asking for when they place the order and are then ultimately disappointed when they pick up donut holes that don’t match their croquembouche dreams.

Anyway, someone was unhappy enough with their order that they hopped on a plane to New Orleans, prowled around the old quarter until they found a tiny shop filled with dried chicken feet and alligator teeth, gave the secret password to get into the hidden back room to see an ancient priestess, and had her construct a voodoo doll for each of our employees.

Only thing that makes sense when you think about it.

One more day of icing cupcakes,

We will top them with rose buds,

We’ll be ready for those orders,

They will stuff themselves with food.

Boy am I looking forward to the day off. It’s not like I’m going to do anything fabulous with it. In fact, I am going to probably catch up on housework. Woot woot. The fun don’t stop on THIS party train.

It’s just having the time to DO the housework, ya know?

I’m not a full time employee. Hell, around here it seems like “full time” is just a bedtime story folks tell their kids to trick them into staying in school. A mythical carrot dangled in front of their naive noses, just to be pulled away by modern corporate America. Some weeks I only get about 25 hours. Not these past couple weeks. Those have been almost full time. Juuuust shy so that I don’t qualify for benefits.

So not quite full time. Doesn’t sound like a lot, does it?

But then there’s the other part of life that comes with having a passel of kids. It just feels like every day I fall further behind on my list.

I’m not complaining. I like the job, I like getting money. That passel sure eats a lot and last time I checked, grocery stores weren’t giving out chickens and spuds for free. I’m just saying that tomorrow will feel damn good.

Watch them oooh and ahhh,

Get them testing treats,

Never get to rest when sales are at their peak,

Here a little taste,

There a little try,

Get ’em with a sample and then watch them buy.

Teen Prime bought me an early birthday present. Mass Effect: Andromeda. I am DYING to play it, but I am a good mummy.

…actually, I’m not. At best, I’m so-so. But, I do have my moments, and one of them is waiting to play the game until Teen Prime can be here for the weekend to watch. He loves watching people play. It didn’t work out this week, so all I can do is cast longing glances at the gleaming new game disc and smell the potential trapped within the pristine plastic.

If he could have made it down, that’s what I’d be doing from punch out time today until clock in time Monday morning. A bit of sleep in between, and I’d come up for air once in awhile to make sure the passel had wrassled up some grub and weren’t bleeding. Instead, we clean. *sigh* Hey, at least we get to clean at home, right?

Gaming. That would have been an awesome way to spend …

Tomorrow I won’t be at the baker-ay. Tomorrow I’ll clean house all day…

Tomorrow we’ll discover

What our laundry piles have in store.

One more tart,

One more caaaaaake,

ONE

DAY

MORE

Thus concludes a…Musing? Is it, though? Is it REALLY? Or is it more like insane rambling?…for Saturday, March 25, 2017. I get it, Weird Al. Props.

I was legit gobbled at by a customer yesterday. An adult customer.

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Mornin’ all.

Guess what I’ve got thawing in the bathtub?

Now, if you guessed, “Medical cadaver,” then you’ve got some issues, my friend, and you need help.

It is, of course, a turkey. Just about done, too, thankfully. I just poked at it and it feels chilly but squishy. No doubt I’ll be chipping the damn giblet glacier out of the cavity to break the birdie down, but I think the meat is thawed. There was more than a fair chance it wouldn’t have been, and things would have gotten very interesting around Le Kitchen du Bethie this morning.

See, I went and bought a 28.3 lb turkey.

For six people.

“Bethie, why??”

I DON’T KNOW!!

I don’t really know, okay? I went to buy the turkey, and when I was standing at the coffin case…

*sidenote: to those who may not know, a refrigerated rolling display case, the kind that’s just a chilly box a grocery store stacks perishable items inside, is referred to as a coffin case. So I suppose, in a way, that IS a cadaver in my tub. Hm. I’m sorry about my earlier questioning of your mental processes. You were simply thinking ahead in the story. My bad.*

…looking at all the turkeys in 57¢/lb Land, doing the mental math to try and figure out how much I needed… Start at like 10 lbs, then add a half pound raw for every guest. I mean, I only needed like a 13-15 pounder. But folks, I was looking at those 13-15 pounders and they looked so small.

I have expounded in great length with lots of flowery eloquence waxing upon the Thanksgivings of my youth in previous Musings. They’re archived if you want to read about grandpas that encouraged tomfoolery and cousins that inspired diabolical snack-stealing plans. They were magical days and I hold them very dear. I also miss them terribly.

I’m in that place in life right now where my kids are growing, but not quite grown, where my adult sibs have moved to different parts of the country, where the older generation by and large have released their molecules back to the cosmos. It’s kind of a lonely era for holidays.

It won’t always be like that. Life is a cycle, the swing of a pendulum. In a few years, my kids will start having real lives, significant others, spouses, children. One by one I’ll have to set another place at the table and scramble to find another chair that doesn’t have a warped leg. And before I know it, it will be MY responsibility to run around the kitchen like a chicken with her head cut off at 4 a.m. scrambling to cram seasoned bread in the culinary cadaver because 13 guests will be arriving in only 7 hours and god DAMN I shouldn’t have had that wine last night…

My time for being the Thanksgiving ring leader will come, and my table WILL be full.

Maybe I was thinking, “Best not let ourselves get rusty, old gal,” when I was choosing my turkey. Maybe I was remembering the crowning jewel at my grandmother’s Thanksgiving table. Maybe I just didn’t want to come at this Thanksgiving with some Bob Cratchit scrawny ass pigeon. I don’t know. But as I stood there looking between a reasonable amount of food and the glorious 28.3 pound Leviathan, the choice became clear.

That leads me to a problem I should have considered before buying the giant: I can’t roast it.

Remember the epic Electrical Apocalypse of ’16? The harbinger of the shitstorm of a year to come that fried our stone age circuit box? Well, along with the computer and dryer, another casualty of the huge surge was the heating element of my oven. I didn’t want to fix it in winter, because it’s cold and I didn’t think it was a good idea to muck with gas lines in the cold, brittle weather. In spring, I started to look for the part. It quickly became apparent that it was not going to be an easy task, since the oven we have is no longer produced and there are mixed opinions on whether or not a universal part will even fit. I figured, “Eh, it’s only spring. I’ve got all summer.”

Stop laughing at me. It’s not very nice.

As we all learned with the story of the grasshopper, I done goofed. Here it is, November and chilly again, and I am looking at the same job I avoided in January.

So I’ve got no oven. I had a moment of regret as I was hoisting my turkey into the car, and I side-eyed the enormous bird in the passenger’s seat most of the way home. It wasn’t until I was watching Teen 2.0 lug the thing in that I actually came up with a game plan

game plan? Get it? Cuz it’s a turkey. *Thanksgiving pun fist bump*

I’m going to take the meat off the bone, grind up half of it to freeze, stuff and roll the other breast and thigh, and do them on the stove top, dutch oven style. I may even finish them off on the grill, if the weather cooperates.

Top tip: One bad idea can lead to several good ones if you’re a pro at working around your own poor impulse control.

I have today off. Some in the bakery do not. I don’t know if it’ll be busy today or dead in the store. I’m guessing the only customers they’ll have are the last minute panickers, because to me it seemed that every single man, woman, and child in the metropolitan area bought a pie yesterday.

The other bakery employees warned me. It’s the first major bakery-heavy holiday I’ve worked in the bakery, and my manager warned me it would be a zoo. She said, “Last year, we were handing out hot pumpkin pies right out of the oven because we could not keep up with demand.” It was one of those statements I thought was seasonal hyperbole.

No. As a first hand witness to the hundreds of pies being placed in carts and baskets, I can say without a doubt my boss wasn’t overstating the facts.

Pies. Pies and pies. If you lined up every pie we sold yesterday end to end it would stretch…well, pretty damn far, I’m guessing. Shit. I didn’t do out the math. It would be impressive, though, I promise you that. And really weird to see all those pies lined up.

Apple, in two sizes. Lattice apple. Mile high apple. Apple berry. Mixed berry, which is NOT the same as “very” berry. Blueberry, strawberry, raspberry, cherry. We had pumpkin, in two sizes, sweet potato, peach, mince…OH the mince. We broke many hearts over the past few days having mince be an available pie, but having them sold out as soon as they hit the floor. “Come back in about two hours and you can have a fresh one.”

“BUT I WANT IT NOW.”

Cream pies. Coconut custard pies, but not plain custard because it’s not 1842 and no one eats that bullshit except one very sad man who could not accept that we do not offer just plain custard pies. Pumpkin praline, pecan…

No matter how many pies we had, someone was always disappointed. I get it. On Thanksgiving, you don’t eat food. You eat nostalgia. You crave a taste of the foods your mother made you eat out of politeness because of everything that awful creamed squash represented. You want a whole wheat roll, not because you actually like them, but because your great Grammie used to make them hard enough to crack a plate if you didn’t set it down carefully and to this day they make you think of the inside jokes with your sisters. You buy olives to stick them on your fingers because you used to have a contest to see how long it would take your Mum to notice and hiss “You girls stop that and behave!” You serve mashed potatoes not because anyone actually wants mashed potatoes, but to use the scoop like a pool for gravy like your uncle pointed out when he confessed quietly that he didn’t want to eat his spuds, either.

You eat nostalgia. And you will go from store to store to find just the right item to satisfy that bittersweet craving. I felt very bad for every customer I had to disappoint.

We had a couple customers that tried my patience. There was a lady who tried to take another customer’s order yesterday. She straight up tried to pick up an order she didn’t place. First time this has ever happened to me. The woman came up to the counter and said, “Hi. I’ve got an order for a chocolate cream pie.”

I sold 7 chocolate cream pies in 2 hours yesterday. They are a hot commodity. To give you an idea of our normal volume, I probably sell one or two of them a WEEK. It is just a high demand item, and even though we made up three times as many as we normally would have, they were all sold out except for one I had set aside for a customer.

I asked the woman’s name. She gave me a different name than was on the order. I said, “I’m sorry, I don’t have an order for you. When did you place it?”

She said, “I’m sure that’s mine. I was standing right here when the lady took the order.” When I reiterated that I didn’t have an order and asked when it was placed to see if there was a legit screw up afoot, she said, “You! That was it. I was in talking to you last night about it. You promised to set one aside for me. I’ll take the one you have.”

Now, this was straight up bullshit. That lady didn’t talk to me. In fact, that lady probably didn’t even come into the store. The order in my hand had been placed days in advance over the phone, and I wasn’t even at work when this hag said she was in.

But, I can’t just scream, “OUT YOU FILTHY LIAR!” Apparently it’s against company policy. *rolly eyes* Such PC bullshit. Unable to speak the truth in a corporate setting, I had no choice but to go with the nicey nice approach. “I’m sorry, but we have no more chocolate pies, and I don’t have an order for you. We have other kinds of cream pies, and many fruit pies if you’d like to choose one of them.”

And then she pulled the ace. I have to give her credit, I think she was a pro. She knew what she was doing and I wonder how many last minute pies she’s gotten with this scam. She grew artificially indignant and said, “Well I don’t know who you think you are, but I placed an order for a cream pie and YOU need to make this right!”

We don’t make our own cream pies. We get them in from the factory with shell and filling, then we just top them with fresh whipped cream (real whipped cream, not some fake ass spray can bullshit) and accoutrements like chocolate curls, toasted coconut, and cake crumbs.

We DO, however, have chocolate pie shells and chocolate pie filling we use in other recipes, and I said, “What I can do for you is make a different kind of cream pie.” I explained, and she looked stunned. I don’t know what she was expecting. Looking back, I wonder if she wanted something for free? Or a discount on the other groceries? Even in the moment, it was clear she did not actually want the pie.

Didn’t matter. She threw down the gauntlet and she was GOING to leave the store with a damn chocolate pie! I said, “I’ll just pop in the back and make you a pie. Give me five minutes and you’ll have one that’s better than the one you ordered.”

It was better, too. The shell was larger, with a chocolate bottom, and fresh filling, not frozen. I did up the pie, brought it out, and she starts to hem and haw. She said, “This isn’t like the other.” I said, “No, but it’s a superior product, and the very best we can do on such short notice without an order.”

Then, it happened.

The moment of clarity. She looked at me and she knew that I knew she didn’t actually order a pie. She knew she got bested. She stood there for a minute while I held the pie out to her and I think she actually tried to consider her options before finally taking the pie and saying, “Well. At least it’s something for the Thanksgiving table.”

I made some cute little turkey cupcakes to put in my top case. In the top case, we sell fresh items daily. What you see is what we have. A family wanted a dozen of the turkey cupcakes. I had four on display. I explained that we didn’t have any more, and they said, “Make them.” Not, “Oh, wow. Is there any way…” Or “I’m sorry to ask, but…” Nope. Just straight up, “Make them.” I said, “I’m sorry, that’s not how it works. Something like this would have to be ordered in advance.” Scoff. Glare. Storm off with the cart.

No skin off my nose. Bye, Felicia.

So there were a few that tried my patience. Most of the customers, though, were awesome. I made a new best customer friend. Awesome dude who was stressed out shopping with his elderly mother and needed a minute to vent when his mum was off looking at the breads. He came back the next day, thanked me, gave me a hug. I’m not going to lie. That was a great moment.

An old woman needed some help, and when I was helping her, she rubbed my arm and said, “Oh! You’re so soft!” And then rubbed me again. That was a confusing moment. I mean, what in the actual hell? Was she sizing me up to decide whether or not to lure me to her gingerbread house and shove me in an oven? Lesbian GILF run amok? I don’t know. But she was smiley and kind so…? I guess either way it was oddly flattering.

This elderly man came up to my counter, wild eyed. He said, “I was told I NEED a mince pie and this is the third store I’ve been to. Do you even know what the traffic is like out there? But there’s no way in hell I want to go home without a mince, so please tell me you have one.” I did. He bought two. He said, “Oh thank you, dear! Oh you just made my Thanksgiving so much better. No one even eats it, you know, but we’ve GOT to have it on the table.” He shook his head, then said, “But it makes her happy. And you have made ME happy, so I thank you.”

I know I don’t do anything personally. I’m not on the line at the factory working double time to make sure the warehouses of the US have enough pies for all the beautifully set tables. I don’t even do the baking off. But in that moment, I’m the person they thank.

I tell you what. That was a great way to start my holiday.

Thus concludes the Morning Gobble for Gobbleday, 2016. I need to go take the bird out of the bath so I can shower. You need to finish your coffee then start your own Thanksgiving prep. Thank you for keeping me company this morning. I hope your Thanksgiving is filled with future memories that’ll make you chuckle and laugh and feel the warmth of being in a time and place with those you love. Have a wonderful Thanksgiving!