I walked into the kitchenette at work to an inviting smell. A comfort meal of sorts had just been heated in the microwave.
I popped the lid off my dish and set the timer for three minutes, hoping my lunch would transform into the safe entree I envisioned in my head. Although it smelled nothing like Thanksgiving, I pictured myself, sitting at my parents' dining room table: the cushioned, high-backed chair supported me as I dug my fork into a mound of sweet potato mash (I was sure to scoop enough of the crunchy marshmallows that partially burned to the side of the casserole). My turkey pieces (the coveted, yet untouched dark meat) were swimming in gravy, but a life boat made of cranberry sauce watched from ashore. Stuffed, I retired to the couch in a pair of comfy pants, put my feet up and spaced out to the glow of the TV.
Instead, I puttered away, defeated.