Thanksgiving was always my holiday with my mom. We'd spend countless hours sifting through her vintage, typewritten recipe cards, some with the remnants of crusted food curling the sides. We'd watch the Food Network in marathon mode. We'd trade recipes we stealthily ripped out of magazines at the hospital during her chemotherapy infusions. We'd debate about who would host and, with a passion only foodies planning a Thanksgiving menu can understand, what we would serve. I mean, anyone who was invited to pull up a chair at our Thanksgiving table to feast was, in fact, blessed. We would joke about that, with hot zany-level-laughter tears springing from the corners of...
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