Ah, yes, the morning after the ├╝ber meal of autumn, when your head is swimming with guest-brought wine, the turkey in your guts has turned into a sponge that has absorbed all the moisture in your system, and at four, you kind of lost count of how many helpings of dessert you consumed, but judging by the frequent low-frequency rumbling into the cushions of your la-z-boy, you suspect seven. Oh, well, between the cooking of the bird and the pies, the place smelled so good no one noticed.

A belated Happy Thanksgiving to you all, and to all, a good morning!

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