Zero hour approaches. Time to clean up somewhat and head out to Hopkins for Thanksgiving dinner with the Watsons. We bring the rolls from Baker's Wife. Each one has a half a stick of butter in it.
The wind is howling and it's 14 degrees and I sure the heck hope you're not freezing your ass off in some thin-asses school clothes. I'm mixing in a little Carhartt and a warm hat because that car is chilly chilly chilly.
I can hear Tom Brady carving up Detroit in the other room so it's time for a Triple S-er (Wroblewski boys understand) and then chow time.