It’s Thanksgiving and I work for a grocery company, so what do I do on my day off after a week of being screamed at by people who are 40+ and still working in grocery store check stands? Why, I get up before 8am to roll out biscuits, of course.

After just enough dinner parties of overpromising and just barely delivering, I’ve learned to keep my responsibilities at a manageable level. I plan better. I prep better. For this year’s Thanksgiving (I guess it’s Friendsgiving, only none of us are going home for actual Thanksgiving so this is all we’ve got), I committed to collard greens and sweet potato biscuits. The greens get finished at Luke and Courtney’s house, but the prep can be done in advance and is dead simple. No more than 20 minutes, nothing has to look lovely.

The biscuits are another story. They’re not difficult, but I had to roast and scoop the sweet potatoes two days in advance so it could chill, and I was smart enough to mix the dough last night and keep it in the fridge. My second-to-last batch is in the oven now, meaning the whole house (it’s not a large one) smells like butter and I’m left with these weird little dough remnants I’m choosing to call “biscuit turds.”

biscuit turd


Fine. My grandfather would have taken the biscuit turd. He was ready to fight people every year for the turkey butt, although I can’t remember anyone ever trying to challenge him for it.

Anyway, some of the biscuits are these big, beautiful buttery pillows that you want to tear open at the middle and slather even more butter on before you shove it in your face. Other biscuits are weird, thin little hockey puck things. No doubt soft and delicious, they’re just a little less attractive. I am not a perfect biscuit maker, okay, which is why I make other things (including vanilla honey butter to go along with them, heeeee!).

Today I’m going to eat an obscenely huge meal with my friends. I will probably drink a bottle of wine. I will go to work hungover tomorrow, because like hell I’m going to remember to stop drinking and also that’s the only way I can cope with the bullshittery at work this past week.

It takes all kinds of people in all kinds of jobs to make the world go around, but if you’re over 40, still checking groceries, and screaming at someone over the phone because of something you fucked up (again)? There’s probably a reason you’re not a CEO, is all I’m saying.

About erineph

I'm Erin. I have tattoos and more than one cat. I am an office drone, a music writer, and an erstwhile bartender. I am a cook in the bedroom and a whore in the kitchen. Things I enjoy include but are not limited to zombies, burritos, Cthulhu, Kurt Vonnegut, Keith Richards, accordions, perfumery, and wearing fat pants in the privacy of my own home.
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