I’ll start by making a few things clear:

I love my father, I love cooking and I love Thanksgiving.

And now that the throat-clearing is done, I can move on to the complaining.

Because of all dishes in all the holidays on the calendar, there’s nothing like the Thanksgiving turkey for getting under your skin. And last year, it got under mine like the butter rub for a gourmet gobbler.

My dad lives in Florida, where global warming has gone to retire, and he keeps the thermostat set to an Amazonian 85 degrees to boot.

As an immigrant, he fears drafts more than his parents feared the invading Italian army (which was, admittedly, not much), so every window was closed and every shade drawn. If I moved to turn on a fan — or, heaven forbid, the air conditioner — my father repaired to his room to

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