Yesterday my husband stumbled into the kitchen at 9 a.m., eyes squinting and hair mashed to one side. His eyes trailed from the potato-streaked mixing bowls to to the flour-dusted countertops before finally landing on me: hands slathered with softened butter, arm halfway up the ass of a 17-pound, free-range turkey. “Do you need any help?” he croaked.
“No,” I said, with a flourish that earned the line a Scarlett O’Hara inflection in his numerous retellings. “This,” I gushed, “is my Super Bowl.” Continue reading