Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. It represents long walks narrated by the crunch of fall leaves beneath my feet, the smells of fireplaces burning, and a natural bent toward both self-reflection and generosity. It is the one cause for celebration that does not include present-giving and which isn’t focused on just one or two people. It is for me, quite happily, about good food and family.

I have heard many accounts of lavish Thanksgiving meals that were labored over all day—the burden often falling on one person—only to be inhaled in a matter of minutes. The cook, often the one left doing the dishes, breathes a private sigh of relief that he or she doesn’t have to do this again until Christmas, while wondering if Grandma Monie’s jelled salad was really worth the effort it took to get it to hold its form and might possibly be omitted next year. Everyone else, meanwhile, has retired to the lazy chair or sofa to snooze off their tryptophan in time for dessert.

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