For the past two years, my Thanksgiving Day plans have consisted of caring for those with carving knife injuries, gravy burns, and side dish gastritis. I've chosen to be a distant observer to the traditional family gathering flanked by cornbread stuffing and pumpkin pie. I've opted to work.

My recent divorce has left me in a state of in-between. My children, now mostly grown, cling tight to a Thanksgiving tradition initiated and perpetuated by their father's family for years. Despite my (often reluctant) years of participation, I am somewhat saddened, yet relieved to step back and finally let go.

For the last thirty years, I've had a love / hate relationship with the November holiday. Thrust into my ex-husband's family at the age of 19, I soon realized that on that day, my mother-in-law was in charge. The overabundance of food, the sanctity of the menu, and the irreverence of a large group of people crammed into a small dining room each year was both exhilarating and dreadful. The matriarch, along with her daughters and daughters-in-law, were assigned to bring several dishes and in a quantity to feed at least 50 people.

The women did everything, the men enjoyed it and the children ran wild.

My mother-in-law was an amazing cook, and as such had high standards. Every dish was to be made from her list of approved recipes, from scratch, and only using the finest ingredients. My assigned dishes seemed to rotate yearly, and I assumed I was being given an opportunity to learn how to make each menu item. After five years, I found out, quite by accident, that my yearly meal contributions were not up to par, even though they seemed to be eaten as well as any of the other items. Within earshot of the kitchen while feeding my baby, I overheard a few of the girls giggling about my lumpy potatoes, bland green beans almandine, and the need to find something for me to do next year that I couldn't mess up'. Devastated at the time, I plotted to break free from this charade. The next year, I opted to work on Thanksgiving.

For the next few years I cooked my own little Thanksgiving feast, intent on creating my own little family tradition. I wanted to gather with my children, discuss how blessed we were, and how we could make the world a better place for those in need. I wanted to expose them to those less fortunate, perhaps volunteer to feed the homeless, or invite extended family and friends to eat with us. I had a lofty vision for how I wanted to celebrate

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