My first memory of eating blue cheese is fuzzy, kinda like blue cheese itself. And I can’t remember not ever liking it, but I do remember when I realized I was the only eight-year-old who did.
I am physical incapable of making the right amount of mashed potatoes. I always make too much. Never too little cause, well… I’m a feeder.
So there is always a cold mound of mash left in the fridge, that I. Just. Cannot. Throw. Away.
Even after living here for ages now, I just cannot make it through this time of year without serious pangs of homesickness.
I don’t know what sets it off. Maybe it’s the change in weather (two pairs of tights weather), hearing the NFL theme song, or the official smell of fall – the Starbucks PSL – wafting through Wimbledon station. It all makes me want to get off this island and return the good old US of A.
And missing Thanksgiving is the worst of all.