So, Thanksgiving.

Our first turkey ever came out perfectly.

Mom Bartilson’s beans did not. Nor one of the pecan pies. We have discovered that our oven temperature is somewhere between 20 to 50 degrees hotter than what it says on the dail.

As would say, that’s hott!

Anyway, despite the undertones of mourning, it was a wonderful, official-type feeling of being a family of our own.

Oh, yeah, and Aunt Betty went to the hospital to get stiches.

still loves the Labatt’s.

Fudge.

Me + ‘s mead = saying bad words in front of my parents. Whoops.

We’re going to get a Christmas tree this year. :)