This ain't your mama's Thanksgiving

Ringing in the season of Thanksgiving means one thing to me...turkey pizza.

Ah yes, the Hall family tradition remains alive and well. In my mother's neverending quest to avoid the kitchen entirely, she remains a spectator with the rest of us as my father creates the glory that is the turkey pizza. And there's no turkey on this pizza kids, it's all in the shape...oh, yeah...totes. See below for the gloriousness:



But, nay, a girl cannot survive Thanksgiving on turkey pizza alone. There must be the shooting of the BB gun and the riding of the tractor.

Like every 17 year old girl, for my birthday, I wanted a Daisy BB gun, and my parents humored me. It still serves me well 9 years later as I wipe the floor with my competition using nothing but a steady hand, six tin cans, one wood sawhorse, and an uncanny sense of the direction that the wind blows. See below for the gloriousness:

Yet, while my mother may not be a deft hand at whipping up the traditional Thanksgiving spread, she is a expert behind the wheel of a tractor, even one that only is sort of still alive and running...nothing like jumping a tractor with a battery, eh? Brought back the good ol' days of jumping my truck...tear. She, being the benevolent maternal figure that she is, chose to pass those mad skills onto me. See below for the gloriousness:

To all of you whose Thanksgiving does not include any sort of pizza-making/gun-shooting/tractor-driving goodness...I pity you, and give thanks for my own good memories.

P.S. - One more down...51) Drive a tractor