I thought when I reread this piece about Thanksgiving I would be nostalgic. After all, it's almost thirty years old. And yet little has changed since it first appeared. I still make Thanksgiving dinner for my husband's entire family, I still use vast quantities of butter, and I still arm wrestle my brother-in-law Jim for the skin. (Watch out, dude—I'm coming at you, and I'll be holding a carving knife.) I have an unbroken record except for 1988, when I had a baby close to midnight on Tuesday and felt unable to cook for a household by Thursday midday. Call me a weak sister, but that was one big baby.
The biggest difference between now and then is that I'm no longer the least bit intimidated. After all these years I have it down to a science: the stuffing, the sweet potatoes, the gravy. I still don't care for turkey until it winds up between two slices of bread the next day, and then mainly because...well, mayonnaise. Mayonnaise is the answer to everything.
Read Anna's Thanksgiving Essay: Life In The 30s