Last week we used Thanksgiving as an excuse to spend some time with some lovely friends and chosen family and eat lots of really wonderful food. (These are the parts of the Thanksgiving holiday I can get behind. The celebration of colonization, the racism, the willful ignorance of the genocide perpetrated by our European ancestors, not so much. But the food and loved ones…I’ll take any excuse for that.)

And the food was really wonderful. Bacon-wrapped turkey stuffed with herbs, rosemary and goat cheese mashed potatoes, and twice-baked bourbon maple sweet potatoes with marshmallows were just some of the highlights. It was wonderful, and there was a lot of it.

So, as is fairly standard on Thanksgiving, we stuffed our faces. One by one the friends around the table admitted defeat, gave up, and retired to the more comfortable chairs in the other room. Everyone was stuffed.

Everyone, that is, except me.

I wasn’t hungry anymore after my first heaping plate, it’s true. But I could definitely have kept going.

And as much as I was amused, I could really only think one thing:

Hello, second puberty. You’re going to be expensive, aren’t you?