As the Thanksgiving holiday winds down, the roly-poly aftermath shows no signs of slowing. Shuffling out to the kitchen for breakfast with eyes crusted over from the holiday glaze, I work my way around in the dark and hit the switch on the coffee machine.

That little “click” has a profound effect.

Somewhere in the foggy recesses of my brain’s locomotive, the first whiff of the brewing beans claps onto a molecule, one single little molecule, and the slow chug chug chug begins.

That first whiff leads the molecule on a wild goose chase to find the second very faint smell it seems to pick up.

I feel the wheels started to churn, slowly building steam as my mind claps the first and second scents together, and that in turn speeds that molecule into the part of my brain that pops my salivary glands into action.

Coffee and ... and ... what’s that next thing the molecule is telling my brain?

Like a zombie, I turn to the refrigerator, compelled by a primeval force that we still have yet to figure out, and with eyes still crusted over, I reach for and extract...

The pumpkin pie.

The refrigerator door closes, but lots more of those little fragrance beads escape and work their way into the first class section of the brain train as it builds up speed.

I don’t even try to pull my eyes wide apart as I instinctively reach for a fork from the dish drainer.

Must ... have ... pie....

The first forkful is led right to where the brain is telling it to come.

Cold pumpkin pie first thing in the morning. Shivers down my spine. What a way to start the day.

The steam from the coffee pot makes it’s diabolical sound as the last of the water evaporates.

Hand up to the cupboard, coffee mug retrieved.

Sugar bowl. Creamer.

One eye manages to lift enough to see the coffee pot so I don’t grab it anywhere but by the handle.
Pour a cup. Pot back in place.

Sugar. Cream.

Clink clink clink goes the spoon around the cup.

Hot and faintly sweet.

Ah.

Another forkful of pie.

The reaction is like another shovelful of coal to the locomotive.

My brain is so focused on the coffee and pumpkin pie, it ignores the third scent molecule trying to force it’s way in.

Finally it gets its way.

Back to the refrigerator.

Door open, turkey beckons.

“Didn’t you get enough yesterday?” I ask it, half expecting an answer.

I lift the loose cover of tin foil over the remnants of the carcass and pull off another tasty morsel.

Different people have different vices.

Drugs.

Alcohol.

Gambling.

Turkey.

That savory morsel with just a hint of sage causes the rest of the brain to bloom like a spring garden.

“I’ll just take one more little piece,” I whisper to the turkey.

The loose cover then falls back into place.

What goes good with turkey?

Why, pumpkin pie of course.

Another forkful of that to wash down the turkey.

Oh man.

That is so good.

I try to keep it quiet because I like having all these goodies to myself.

I hear a voice beside me.

It’s The Kid.

“I heard the tin foil rustle,” he says quietly.

I have to pry my eyes open this time to see if his eyes are open.

They aren’t.

“Any whipped cream left?” he asks.

I take two spoons out of the drawer.

“Blue bowl on second shelf,” I instruct, handing him a spoon.

The bowl is extracted, cover removed.

As he gets his first mouthful of leftover whipped cream, he smiles and says, “Mmm. That’s what I was waiting all night for.”

Needless to say, the apple didn’t fall too far from the Thanksgiving tree.