My dad used to shoot the occasional turkey, but I never ate one of them. I’m not against eating wild turkey, I was just never at the house when they cooked one up. Turkey hunting is something my dad had taken up well after I’d left home, so I never joined him. He was proud of it, though. He had a big fan of tailfeathers up on the wall of his sun room, near his deer heads and one of his big, mounted muskies – frozen in space, mouth agape, curving away from the wall as if it could suddenly change direction and swim into the kitchen.

The Thanksgiving bird eaten by my family – and my wife’s family – usually comes from one of those huge open-top coolers at the grocery store, not the wild woods and fields of northern Wisconsin. And it’s always good. Our mothers have been managing Thanksgiving dinner long enough to have eradicated the guesswork. They can be their own worst critics, commenting on dryness and whatnot, but I can’t remember the last time I had a bite of turkey I didn’t like.

Full Disclosure: I eat most of my Thanksgiving turkey with a lil’ gob of stuffing and a lil’ dab of cranberry sauce on each and every bite, because it’s the best way to eat it, and if you don’t, agree, you are 100% wrong.

But enough about poultry. Get a load of this: My mother-in-law does not like potatoes. I’m reasonably sure she’s not insane. And she seems absolutely in control of her facilities apart from this thoroughly baffling aversion to spuds. She enjoys the occasional potato chip, and she’ll steal your thin, super-crunchy French fries when you’re not looking, but that’s it. At family dinners, my wife or father-in-law usually handles the mashed potatoes. Because her mother clearly suffered from some kind of potato-related childhood trauma of which we do not speak.

Me? I like every kind of potato ever to have blessed the dirty dirt of Planet Earth. In fact, one Thanksgiving a few years back I stepped across some kind of threshold to adulthood when I realized that I actually like sweet potatoes. Without marshmallows. Or buttery, candied pecans. Or Sour Patch Kids. Or whatever it is your Sweet Gramma-nana used to put on them. Keep ’em salty, keep ’em orange, and keep ’em coming, that’s what I always say. More savory than sweet is how I likes ’em, and if you could make an extra dish for me sans the sugary goo, I’ll happily squeeze you into the manliest of bear hugs.

Green bean casserole? It’s not bad. But it’s not my favorite. It takes up room I’d rather stuff with another homemade dinner roll. Did I mention my wife makes homemade dinner rolls? She does, and they’re crazy good. Not “my mother-in-law doesn’t like potatoes” crazy, but “my wife was a professional baker before we had kids” crazy good.

I like to make tiny Thanksgiving sandwiches out of them, incorporating a tiny sample of every single thing on my plate like I’m some kind of gluttonous Dr. Frankenstein. Because it’s awesome.

Anyway, this Thanksgiving I plan on giving thanks for the food I’m lucky enough to have and lucky enough to share with the people I love – especially the lovely people who cook it with such care. And I hope that you’re lucky enough to do the same.

Full Disclosure #2: Frozen corn is better than canned corn, but not nearly as good as that baked cornmeal mush stuff. Also, pumpkin pie is fine, but if I’m being totally honest, and I totally am, pecan pie is what I need.