I'm not a mom, but when I am, I will be the kind children roll their eyes at. Thanksgiving, objectively, is the best holiday ever invented. It's not just the gluttony of gravy, the four-day weekend, or the smoky fireplace smell of it — it's the forced march of going round the table and giving thanks that I love.
In my experience, most children — men in particular (and my father-in-law in particular) — are allergic to this holiday ritual. Over the years, I've learned the trick is to wait till the middle of the meal before you advance — get them stoned on tryptophan, serve up an antihistamine of stuffing, and tear down their resistance with French's fried-onion-and-green-bean casserole. Even then, eyes will roll. But you'll prevail. I am ferocious in my love of this theater of gratitude. I bake pies and candy yams in its honor. I engorge myself on its alter.
I love it so much, I start making my list in advance:
This year, I am grateful for family.
For my grandparents, who just celebrated 60 years of marriage.
For my grandfather, who taught me to ...