Thanksgiving week is always riddled these very real dangers. One slip of the “Hello. I’m sane” mask and the crazy oozes out all over the turkey.
The meal is ruined.
The family is fractured.
The classic “I’m going into the backyard and eat worms!” threat is issued (and meant)… and another Thanksgiving is drove into the ditches by me.
At least that’s what my brain says.
Correction: The worst pitfall isn’t ahead. It’s already here. And its name is Chloe freaking Stowe.