Hi Reader, Before November turned to Thanksgiving, the month was always about dinners that stuck to your ribs and fogged the kitchen windows until you could finger-paint on them. My mother had an uncanny way of knowing just when the chill in the air crossed from “brisk” to “bone-deep.” That’s when she’d pull out the stockpot. Suddenly, a chicken became three meals, beans lost their anonymity in a garlicky stew, and cabbage was transformed into something that could make you forget it was,...

Hi Reader, In my family, turkey wasn't a thing for Thanksgiving. My dad, for whatever reason, didn't like it. Instead, we had capons, which I happily ate until he told me they were "emasculated chickens." After that, I was Team Side Dishes. My grandmother’s dressing, my mother’s mashed potatoes, my godmother's French stuffing, the obligatory green beans that no one touched but everyone felt guilty omitting. You wanna do WHAT to me? Of course, back then, it was chaos. My mother swore she had...

Hi Reader, I’ll admit it: For years, I thought pumpkin’s sole purpose was pie. And not even a pie I liked all that much. (Yes, I said it. Send unto me thy angry and indignant electronic correspondence.) Then I met You Know Who. The man is mad about pumpkin. I mean totally loony (which I can say, given my numerous and varied mental health diagnoses over the decades). It started innocently enough. He wanted a pumpkin pie. Sure, I said. Back then, I was still cooking from the back of boxes and...