LESS THAN A MONTH UNTIL THANKSGIVING!!!!!

WARNING! Those of you, like me, who await Thanksgiving like an upper east-sider awaits the once-yearly-barneys-mega-sale, beware because this is a heart-breaking true story…
It wasn’t until college that I had the following enlightening realization: Thanksgiving is the best day of the year.

If you ask me, it is the holiest of holidays because it is based purely around my one true love: food. You simply can’t have Thanksgiving without a feast! What a fabulous idea. I’m sure you’re asking yourself, why did this thought come about so late in her life? How could she not have seen the glory that is Bird Day from her first taste of mashed potatoes? How could the alluring smell of gravy not have stirred her soul before?

I’ll tell you why. This, like everything in life, is all my mother’s fault. She would create magnificent meals everyday: BBQ pulled pork on brioche rolls… beef stew made from scratch… homemade ravioli… chocolate chip pancakes shaped like animals… the woman is a true genius. She made us fell like everyday was a holiday. Fast forward to college; ramen noodles, cafeteria mystery meat, buffalo wings from bars without kitchens (where did they come from?). I decided that in order to fully appreciate the glory that is Thanksgiving I needed to go into training. I began a vigorous physical routine that demanded such willpower and strength of character that even Lance Armstrong couldn’t have completed it… I was going to stretch my stomach to its full capacity.

It began slowly, but surely. I started to add snacks in between my meals, then full meals in between my meals, (if brunch exists so does lunner), and then finally I began condensing the multiple meals into three large meals per day. I had been reaching every goal I set for myself so I decided to up the ante. Living in New Orleans at the time, I knew exactly where to go, a restaurant known for its half pound burgers and fully, and I mean fully, loaded baked potatoes: Port of Call.

I ordered a burger with everything and a tater with everything and finished them both with ease. It was two days before I was set to go home for Thanksgiving, so I knew it was crunch time. Everything was going according to plan; all I had to do now was stretch my stomach to its maximum capacity and then fast the day before Thanksgiving to allow for a full tummy tank of Thanksgiving delicacies. I ordered another burger. “That’s right,” I said to the waitress with a prideful smirk on my face, “I’ll take another.” The burger came. I took a bite. Then another. And another. It wasn’t until halfway through that “the incident” occurred.

I was raising the burger to my face with both hands gripping the bun tightly, eager to get every last drop of ketchup into my mouth, when suddenly I froze. It was as if every muscle in my body had cramped up. I tried to get one last bite down but I couldn’t swallow, I couldn’t even move! I began to panic. I had heard about this before; competitive eaters who over-exert themselves and go into what every foodie fears,

a food coma.

Terror ran through my body and chills climbed down my back. Could this really be happening to me? After all my training? All my hard work? I finally understood how Nancy Kerrigan must have felt.

The coma lasted three days, just long enough to ruin the blessed event. I tried not to let it get me down; I loaded up my Thanksgiving plate just like everyone else with a hopeful determination I had never felt before. I raised a forkful of stuffing to my face. My stomach cramped up just from the idea. Come on you can do this. I chewed. I swallowed. I clenched my stomach in agony – I was experiencing a pain I had never felt before. I evicted my young cousin who was sitting next to me, pulled her chair next to mine and lied down. And that, my friend, is where I stayed for the next three hours.