I can sum up my Thanksgiving in eighteen million photos.

Give or take a few million.

Thanksgiving, for the Husband and me, started Wednesday afternoon with a mad scramble to get packed, feed the cats, grab a pillow for the road, get the booze in the car, get the car washed, the gas tank filled and get on the highway before traffic got bad.

We still sat in traffic for the rest of our lives. At least, that's what it felt like. In real time? Eight hours.

But at least it was pretty. I stayed somewhat nauseous for most of it.

We arrived in southern Utah sometime after ten. We got checked in and pretty much crashed. The Husband, who made the smart decision to save his marriage and spend Thanksgiving with me, was coming down with a bad cold. I, of course, picked a fight with him. But it was totally his fault.

He stayed in bed for most of the morning on Thursday while the rest of us (my mom, J, my two younger brothers, and myself) packed up and headed to my sister's house to start feasting.

I've never enjoyed the strict planning that some people strive for in a Thanksgiving meal. I'm not all about getting up at stupid o'clock in the morning to get a turkey in the oven and "we'll be eating at two pm sharp."

I think the turkey went in sometime around nine or ten. Everyone helped with the stuffing and by "helped" I mean we stood around my mother while she made it and sampled and sampled some more until we finally told her it was perfect. Well, I told her it was still too dry, but did anybody listen? Of course not. And what was the one complaint about the stuffing as we inhaled our dinner? It was dry.

The Husband eventually dragged his sorry, sniffling butt over to join us for dinner. He was feeling pretty good after a big meal and several screwdrivers.

And this? This is my brother, Travis, who just recently turned twenty-one. This is what happens after a big meal, many beers, and many glasses of your older sister's toxic powerful Sangria. Which was fabulous if I do say so myself.

We, of course, took merciless advantage of the fact that he passed out on the sofa in a room full of incredibly loud half-drunk Charade-playing fools family members.

I know. Man feet. Hairy man feet. Gross.

On Friday morning, it was Bailey's and coffee for breakfast. And many Almond Rocas.

I have no idea when a gigantic tin of Almond Roca became a tradition, but I don't ask questions. I just enjoy. And it's okay! Calories don't count on holidays. Or on days after holidays.

We went shopping in the early afternoon. My favorite clothing store is located near my sister and I try to make it a point to go whenever I visit.

We also stopped at Target where I bought the first three seasons of House. I'm sorry, I love that man show.

When we got home, our feet sore and our backs aching, us womenfolk gathered around the table for the traditional game of Let's Start a Fight.

And there was pie involved. Glorious pie.

This is the Caramel Pecan Pumpkin Pie I found in my old Better Homes cookbook. It was fantastic. And beautiful. And, yes, I piled on a mountain of homemade whip cream, because homemade whip cream is the best thing ever.

And this is my older sister, T. She's amazing. And she hosted the entire Thanksgiving event. Which means that, in addition to cooking the turkey, she simultaneously secured her place in Heaven.