Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. As a kid, I’d get up with my parents at 6 a.m. and watch them wrestle a giant Butterball into a paper bag. By noon, the bag had invariably split, spilling turkey juices all over the oven and bathing the house in a smoky haze.
It was bliss.
I returned to my childhood home for Thanksgiving through my 20s and early 30s. Then I got married and decided to host my own dinner. I invited work friends, my stepdaughter and my in-laws. I forgot to take the plastic-wrapped giblets out of the turkey. I also tried to roast the 18-pound bird in a broiler pan. Drippings quickly flooded the oven, and we ate dinner amid a smoky haze.
At 4, my oldest son grabbed onto my enthusiasm for Thanksgiving. He woke early, watched as I put together the turkey (plastic-wrapped giblets out of the…
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