I already feel like a hockey player and am ready with the hip check, wanting to protect what’s mine… in the fridge. I feel like the shelves of the fridge need to be partitioned into equal territories. As if our leftover plates should be assembled in advance, with our names marking our holdings. Because if you sleep late, forget it. Your next chance at sweet potatoes is cleaning toddler ears. It’s sick, so so sick, that I feel I need to be the first to sleep, so I can be the first to rise, and beat my sister to the leftovers.

There was a plan of turkey pot pie, no sandwiches. But really, I’m happy with a repeat of tonight. I don’t need creative recipes for leftovers. I just need more of them. Though with all these unused bags of dried, cubed, baguette, I’m tempted to compose a bread pudding, perhaps with prailines, or a touch of brandy, or just heaps of brown sugar. When I hear "day old bread," I don’t think "feed the pigeons." I think, "Oooh, custard."

I’m not going to lie, there’s a deep, primal, rage there, between us, a sibling rivalry. Where I can tell she wants to stab me in the face if I even think of htting up the sweet potatoes before she does. My mother’s sweet potatoes are so sweet, that they’re really sweet potato pie, without the pie. But this year, I’m not going there. At all. They’re hers for the taking. That, or I’m making a leftovers plate now and hiding it at the neighbor’s house while she’s sleeping. I’m so not kidding.

Or, I could remind myself that the real loser in this scenario is the one who gorges, who hoards, who overeats to the point of exhaustion. This year I ate, but not to the point where I needed to sleep or unbutton. After dinner, I took the taters out for a walk, chasing one another on the golf course, doing jumping jacks on the greens. We touched the yellow flag, raced through sand ditches, swerved past ant hills, then tiptoed back into the house, where Tia Lea was already in bed sleeping. I’m afraid she might’ve caught our colds.

Tomorrow there will be swimming, bike rides, more playground time, and rides on the golf cart. If it rains, there might just be bowling. For now though, there’s bedtime and wine to be had. And HELLO Christmas music! Oh, how I love thee! Bring it on.