Tom Turkey, that guy that no one cares about until November rolls around, is very busy this year. And in France, no less. Aren’t you shocked!

I didn’t think so.

This year, instead of inviting everyone on God’s Green Half Acre, we’ve split our production in half. Mr. Brain (first name Finally Functioning) looks forward to Turkey Day so he can visit with those of his friends willing and able to make the trip to Prostate Of, France. Me? I look forward to it for the same reason, although it seems in recent years, those who I’d like to invite get pushed to the side so those he invites have space.

Ah, space, glorious space. It’s something we’ve got in short supply, so each year the entire production gets moved out to the woods, to the Chalet Under the Vineyard. It all gets cooked here, though. Fun stuff. Ever tried moving a feast for 30+ without spilling green bean casserole all over the back seat of your car or displacing one of those perfectly-placed-so-the-platter-looks-gorgeous nibblies that you’ve spent hours on? Not Easy.

Anyway, no griping. I’m not here to gripe (for once).

Mr. Brain wants to spend time with his Lovies, and I with mine. And since most of his Lovies work in that frighteningly over-compensated Mafia called l’Education Nationale, and because they’ve all left their champ-ardennais roots for greener climes, forcing them to visit on a weekend outside of their (many paid) holidays is akin to ripping hair off my legs with wax—doable, yet painful.

And then they spend the weekend bitching and moaning about how HARD life is. Boohoohoo.

So screw that. Let’s invite them for a Rezo Weekend over Fall Break, where they can all fiddle around with their first love—those beastly machines called computers—and spend their (ha-ha-ha-hard-earned) vacation shooting each other and yelling obscenities, the likes of which would make my mother blush. And since Mr. Brain will probably do nothing less than abandon me yet again with three small kids so he can talk, shoot and yell disgusting things at those he loves, I can get away with simpler fare than the normal Gooble-Gooble Gooble-Up. In fact, simple, when they’re all intent on making blood and gore splash around their screens, is appreciated.

And we all know I need to be appreciated.

And so, with the Frickin’ Frenchies out of the way, the road is cleared for more interesting people. And better looking people. And, dare I say it, NICE people—not that Marc’s friends aren’t nice. They are. They really are. But they’ve been conditioned, by all those meals I lovingly prepared, served, and cleaned up after when I didn’t speak French, to basically ignore my presence or treat me like the waitress. That might be overstating things a bit, but only a bit. And honestly, I’m at the point where, if I spend as much time as I do cooking, I’d actually like to enjoy the meal, too.

So, on Turkey Day weekend my Lovies will be invited, to a significantly smaller, significantly more English-speaking, yet no less gut-filling Frenchified version of That Great Meal. And then I’ll kick them all out and go watch them try to drown the Scary Baby and his brother.

Two Toms down! “But Doc”, you’re thinking, “You said three. What’s up with the mystery date?” (Yeah, I know you were totally not thinking that at all. In fact, if you’ve made it this far into my mind-numbing gibberish, you’re either very bored or too kind, or maybe just a sadist—I likes me some sadists.) Yes, Date Number Three! The most exciting of my news!

Our neighbors, the ones with the restaurant, that restaurant that normally caters to truckers (although they don’t allow lot lizards), put on a theme night one Saturday every month. They’ve been after me for awhile now to do an American dinner with them. What’s more American than tail-gate parties, a phenomenon the French can’t quite grasp? Why, Thanksgiving, of course! So I’ve been invited to be Chef For A Day on November 10^th where I get the fun job of preparing yet another gobbly-gobble-gobble for those anonymous Frenchies curious enough to reserve in advance. I’m really looking forward to it! Not only to I get to share my “culture”, they’re giving me free reign in a kitchen the size of California and have told me Not To Worry About The Clean Up. They’ll take care of that part. Do they not understand, this is like tossing a bunch of nymphomaniacs into the Playboy Mansion.

Mayhem is sure to follow.