Brace Yourself

I've been humming Adam Sandler's Thanksgiving Song for a week now, so I know the tryptophan coma is almost upon us. Time to brace myself for the influx of family. Time to tolerate my mother suggesting that we talk about something other than politics at the Thanksgiving table, only for her to complain when we rehash the history of who has been to jail, who hasn't, and who tried really hard but couldn't get in.

Personally, I think Turkey Day is the finest holiday we Americans have ever invented. No gifts. Few decorations. And little pressure, except for working hard to not say something that offends the in-laws, like asking, "What is that revolting green stuff in that bowl?" Note: It's a traditional Thanksgiving dish whipped together with pistachio pudding, marshmallows, chopped green grapes and pecans developed by now-deceased grandmother. Who knew?

With all this in mind, I'm preparing to place myself in a Cranberry Fog forthwith. The recipe follows:

1/4 cup cocktail rimming or granulated sugar
1 lime wedge
1 cup frozen cranberries
8 ounces cranberry juice
1/2 cup Simple Syrup
1/3 cup freshly squeezed lime juice
8 ounces tequila
1/3 cup orange liqueur
2 cups crushed ice

Run the lime wedge around the rim of 4 margarita glasses. Dip each glass in the sugar. Puree the next three ingredients until smooth. Add everything else and then blend again, until smooth. Here I diverge from the directions, which say to evenly divide the mixture between the four glasses. I say fill your glass first and drink it down to be sure you've concocted an elixir suitable for sharing. Then divide the rest between the four glasses and serve.
         ~From Peterson's Holiday Helper

As a side note, tequila plays a role in my futile one-time effort to get into jail. My mother really hates to hear that story at Thanksgiving.