Don’t hate me. I love everything about the hustle and bustle in a holiday-infused kitchen. I don’t mind at all that it takes, days, maybe even weeks, to create a feast that’s going to be devoured in an hour. I have fond memories of huge holiday feasts, some of them fabricated no doubt. The details escape me. Everyone is smiling and swooning over the meal and we’re already planning the colossal turkey sandwiches that will follow before we’ve even dipped into the dinner. Gluttony is good. ‘Tis the season.

I have almost completely erased the memories of meals that didn’t turn out … like the time my sister in law made her first turkey ever and didn’t account for the hours it takes to actually thaw the turkey AND roast the bird. All was not lost, however. At one point in the endless appetizer course someone brilliantly decided to cut the breast from the bird and roast just that. I’m sure we ate the meal some time before midnight. See? I can’t remember details.

Or the time I invited my parents to come to Virginia for a Thanksgiving feast. I was newly separated at the time and very determined to show them I was making it on my own. Heck, I could even roast a turkey. My parents were old-school Italian and all about safety. To them, a young woman living alone, without a man to protect her, was not safe (insert eye roll). The fact that my brand new condo had already been broken into didn’t help matters. I’d find my father checking and double checking windows and doors and ‘testing’ the alarm system several times a day.

That year I found a recipe for a Cajun-spiced turkey in Bon Appétit Magazine that sounded both intriguing and exotic. For a reason I cannot even begin to fathom I was supposed to break the breastbone of the turkey before sliding a medley of aromatics underneath the skin. I placed a bed of newspaper on the kitchen floor, covered it with wax paper and gently lowered the bird so that I could break the breastbone, CPR style. I’m pretty compulsive about my kitchen. It’s spotless. And yes, you could probably eat from the floor, but this endeavor had my Felix Ungar father in a panic. He tried to be diplomatic but I could see the sight of a turkey splayed out on the kitchen floor waiting to be dressed was more than he could bear.

“Maybe we can do that on the counter. It’s more, um … sanitary … don’t you think?”

“Don’t worry, Dad, the turkey isn’t even touching the floor. Maybe you could go check that alarm system again, I’m sure I heard it beep.”

The afternoon prior I arrived home to find my parents outside in the parking lot. My dad was sweeping the street and my mother was looking at a magazine. This was November. A blustery November. I was more than just a little perplexed. And then I heard an alarm sounding in the distance. They had forgotten the code so they decided to just wait outside for me (or the police) to arrive. My dad took the opportunity to clean up the parking lot so that I wouldn’t get a flat tire from wayward construction debris. My mother thumbed through a catalog, a picture of nonchalance. Kind of like, “Hmmmmm, I wonder where that sound is coming from? Look dear, you can order a Stanley Steamer and get a dust buster for free!”

And then there was the time my sister and her husband flew all the way from Colorado to spend Thanksgiving with me. My friend Maggie brought the stuffing. Maggie is a vegetarian. I may have been one, too, at that point, I don’t remember. I do remember the stuffing, however. It looked nothing like the traditional stuffing we knew and loved. Did I mention my brother-in-law makes killer stuffing? From scratch. Yes, he waits all year to create the perfect stuffing moistened with the pan drippings from a turkey that has been slow-roasting for hours. I’m pretty sure Maggie made the stuffing with mashed chickpeas instead of bread (for protein), and this was years before gluten-free became a religion. And the gravy? Most likely a mixture of tofu, miso and soy sauce. Miso was some kind of magic in those days. I won’t even tell you about the Tofurkey.

But for me, the telling of those stories, years later, that’s where the chorus of reminiscence reaches a crescendo. It sounds something like this:

“Do you remember the time she baked the Pear & Almond Chocolate Cake with Cider Glaze and it slipped out of her hands when she took it out of the oven and ended up on the floor?” (Heads nod and chuckles erupt.)

“And then, she made ANOTHER one and this time it stuck to that fancy bundt pan with too many ridges so we dished it out in crumbles and clumps, served it with ice cream, and called it Crumble Cake.” (Chuckles erupt into hysterical laughter.)

I never tire of a good story, particularly when there is laughter. Everyone knows this kind of laughter. You want to replicate it often and much. You want to ache from it. Drink brandied eggnog with it. Spread it thickly on a piece of toast like pate. Watch the memories merge and mingle and marry until, eventually, they become not a chorus but a course at your next holiday meal.