So it's been a couple of months, (almost a year) but I believe that feeling sorry for ones self is better done in private. I think I'm done now.
First off let me say that I love my Gramma. She is feisty, and independent, and the only reason we still see our family at least once a year.
But she cannot cook a turkey. She obliterates it.
It's always been dry, but this year I almost choked to death. Deserts have more moisture. We've all tried to help take some of the "responsibility" for the meal off of her shoulders, and she has agreed to a point. The turkey and stuffing are hers. She refuses to hand them over. The stuffing was a frightening brown this time. I wouldn't touch it to save my life. We drive to my gramma's house every Thanksgiving without fail. We don't go for the food.
This year our day at Gramma's was cut short as we had to get on the road. My mother-in-law's uncle had passed (the first week of October) and we were headed to N.C. for the funeral. We made it to our first destination without a problem. We left 80 degree weather and the next morning it was forty. That was fun. And that was when the adventure began.
The van wouldn't start the next morning. We made a new friend so we could get a jump start. By the time we were on the way home, Mr.D. refused to turn the van off even when we stopped for gas. I was certain we would die in a fiery explosion of unnecessary caution.We had jumper cables, man! On the plus side the trip home was filled to the gills with anticipation. Also, it took six forevers to get home.