when life gives you leftovers.

We don't like Thanksgiving dinner as much as we pretend. If dry turkey, weird stuffing, lumpy mashed potatoes and canned cranberry is so good, why do we only eat it once a year? Why aren't there crowded, expensive restaurants that specialize in turkey dinners? Because it's not that good. Because it's tradition to eat this stuff, but no one really enjoys it that much. Your own personal experiences with the holiday, with your family and this food will determine how true this harsh statement is. But you have to admit it's a valid point, which is why the friend who offered this enlightenment days before the big weekend roasted a prime rib for his family this year. I hope it turned out tasty.

In my world, Thanksgiving is an odd occasion. Yes, there is food, too much of it, some delicious. Turkey is quite dry and bland by nature, which is why I prefer the moist, fatty dark meat of the bird. Never been a fan of stuffing/dressing, which presented an interesting challenge when I was assigned to make it for this year's rather large family gathering. It was okay; I found a pretty standard recipe and twisted it to include garlic-rosemary bread, slab bacon and apples. The texture was very un-stuffing like, light and approachable instead of the congealed slop people inexplicably rave about. And it tasted like bacon. So it deserved to be universally loved. Also never enjoyed the strange green bean casserole that involves crispy onions and cream of mushroom soup, yet there it was, on the table again, once per year. Mom says she has to make it, people want it, but I'm not convinced. So there is good and bad. Thanksgiving also is the gateway to the wildly emotional, unnecessarily stressful holiday season, and peering into a long December with a tryptophan hangover is not the most pleasant thing.

Perhaps that's why, in my family, we have another Thanksgiving tradition, and it's called turkitos. Years ago, my father decided the best thing to do with the leftover bird is to tear it apart, roll it up in corn tortillas and deep fry to your heart's content, serving up refried beans, grated cheese, fresh salsa and guacamole alongside. It's simple. Anyone can do it. I can't think of anything that provides a more satisfying bite after minimal effort than a fried tortilla. In my world, Turkito Day has replaced Thanksgiving in the pantheon of food holidays. (I have more: The New Year's Meatdown, Borracho Day, the annual Fall-B-Que, etc. Trademarks are pending so think up your own stupid names, please.) This year's event was long in crunchy goodness but short in attendance. Final output: approximately 75 turkey taquitos on Friday, none left standing by Monday. The backyard barbecue was transformed into a factory. You've got your shredded meat station, your cast iron skillet warming tortillas, your rolling station, your deep-fry station of vegetable and canola oil bubbling away on the grill's sideburner, and finally the paper towel-covered paydirt, the last stop for turkitos before munchdown. Freshly mixed guacamole with a jalapeno influence was waiting. A huge block of colby jack was shredded and resting in an orange bowl. We bought the good, drizzly Mexican sour cream. Several salsas, refrieds spiced with habanero hot sauce, and a head of shredded iceberg upon which to rest your bounty. I raced the clock of booze, speeding to roll and fry the last one before many early cocktails would have made me unfit to handle hot oil. I made it. All was good.

A successful Turkito Day, less than 24 hours after one of the better tasting Thanksgiving meals I can remember, will stand out in a long weekend of good eating. (Saturday, there was pizza, and Sunday, a visit to a solid Vegas steakhouse, Envy.) Definitely got the food part down. Then there's the family. These are the two splitting branches of the holiday stress tree. Both can be great fun, both can make you insane. One of them, you can always order takeout. Me, I spent an hour tearing apart turkey meat in my kitchen Friday morning, hand shredding it piece by piece, my dog begging uncontrollably just inches away. Grab a drumstick, rip it up, good meat in the bowl, bones and yuck in the garbage. Hands shiny with fat, tiny bits of bird clinging to fingers, just like I watched my dad do years back. I remember trips home from college for Thanksgiving, waking up on the couch, seeing him sitting at the dining room table doing this. Getting ready for the fry. This is our collective holiday experience, traditions we carry out whether we love them or not because they are laced with memories. We take the bitter for the sweet.