Every family has a Thanksgiving origin story. Some begin with a grandmother’s battered recipe card, others with a shaky first attempt at gravy. But mine began, this year, with a text from Grace.

Grace, who I once buckled into a car seat and bribed with Goldfish crackers, is now somehow a fully grown human capable of managing a stovetop, wrangling guest lists and hosting a whole Thanksgiving dinner without an adult supervising from three feet away. Time is a wheel of brie my friends; it just keeps rolling.

Her question —”Can cooking all day actually be fun?” — got me thinking. If Grace was staring down her holiday meal with equal parts courage and bewilderment, surely others were too. So I put out a call: send me your Thanksgiving quandaries, your culinary existential crises, your “is thi

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