Time for a Turkey Day postprandial postmortem. Don't you think? Yes, I knew you'd agree.

Time for a Turkey Day postprandial postmortem. Don't you think? Yes, I knew you'd agree.

First let me state I am sincerely praying none of our gentle readers got maced at Walmart fighting over a Black Friday waffle maker.

People, please listen up. I say this every year. And every year Black Friday shopping stories just get more and more hilarious ... um, I mean tragic.

Nobody likes a screamin' deal more than yours truly. My pulse quickens at the sight of a yard sale sign. But you will never, ever find me queuing up for this kind of trouble. I don't care if they're giving away 40-inch flat screens with every packet of tube socks. It's just flat not worth it.

It's a fact that no good ever comes from getting up before the crack of dawn. Now add the fact that all your fellow shoppers are yo-yoing between a tryptophan coma and a pumpkin pie high. No one has yet imbibed a remotely sufficient dose of caffeine to counter-balance this special brand of crazy. Honestly, folks, what did you think would happen?

Yeah, yeah. I know. Some of you diehards still insist the prices are to die for. OK. Fair warning: You'd better mean that literally. Just sayin'. One fine Friday, Grammy's gonna be packin'. Don't mess with the bluehairs. They're all shopping on a fixed income for a nest of great-grandkids.

Moving on. All this talk about wrestling for wrappables has made me hungry. And reminded me of the topic at hand. As I spoon down the innards of my last slice of pumpkin pie — a breakfast fit for a queen, by the way — let's do the rundown. How was your Thanksgiving feast? Tasty? Or interesting?

I dined at Chez Sis and enjoyed the traditional fare. Turkey, dressing, sweet taters, mashed taters, gravy, etc. The works. It was delish.

You'd think I'd be thrilled. But not necessarily so. Here's the deal. While I'm eternally grateful for my family and the food, and while disasterless dining makes for good digestion, it leaves it to my other friends to spill their guts on dinners-gone-wrong. For where's the fun in talking turkey if you can't tell tales of how the dog stole the bird just as the platter was getting its final parsley prep?

Or how about a story on how you didn't make it to the table? At least not on the first try.

One friend, Robin Wanderer, fessed up how she'd walked into the wrong condo at her mom's complex. Poor Wanderer was cheerfully unaware she'd zigged instead of zagged in the rabbit warren. Thankfully there were clues to set her straight.

"The kitchen was on the wrong side, and no one at the table looked familiar," Wanderer said. "Oops." I'm pretty sure there were no police involved. But she never did say what the strangers were having for dinner.

These stories often become "viral" in families, and handed down through the generations, said Uncle Thomas.

Turns out Thomas' brother inadvertently slathered horseradish sauce all over his spud while the family was dining in style at the parental units' club. Steam erupted from the poor fellow's ears, and I suspect there was spewing involved. Thomas' nephew greatly enjoys telling this story at each holiday dinner, no doubt prompted by Uncle Thomas, who later revealed said incident occurred at least five years before nephew was hatched.

"Ah, the stories that we tell — at the expense of our siblings," Thomas said, adding one year they all gabbed about Holiday Dates from Hades.

I'm saving that column for Christmas.

Meanwhile, it suddenly occurred to me that Sis' lack of culinary chaos might be my fault, as I wasn't asked to bring a blessed thing to Thanksgiving dinner. Or was it that I specifically asked not to bring a blessed thing? Hmm.

Reach reporter Sanne Specht at 541-776-4497 or e-mail sspecht@mailtribune.com.