Our friends at the Awl check in with a delightful cranberry sauce receipt, written up in a style that is to Susan Stamberg's weary cranberry sauce ritual what the Bindlestiff Family Cirkus is to Prairie Home Companion.
On the other side, whingeing from the usually entertaining Jeff Johnson -- I've enjoyed his stuff since he was picking games for McSweeney's in the 1990s, but his account of how taking a six year old kid to a professional football game did not go so well reads like a cross between the reflexive Pats bashing of circa-07 Deadspin, and the smug natalist entitlement of Neal "Alternadad" Pollock. Nothing in Johnson's account would surprise anyone with even a passing familiarity with attending a Patriots game, or an NFL game in general. (Disclosure: The Cod was there, too, and considerably happier with the outcome than was Jeff Johnson.) It seems like a bit more common sense, or reading the Gillette Stadium policies, or even allowing time to make the return trip to the car would have prevented a "ruined" Halloween. Instead, it's an example of the phenomenon where a child is a sort of laser device that allows a parent to concentrate and focus his or her sense of entitlement whenever the universe does not conform to that parent's wishes.
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