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Thanksgiving is here, and I can’t cook.

I can broil a fish filet and steam a veggie, but that’s about it. If you want anything else edible, don’t let me anywhere near a stove. Especially the one that has occupied my kitchen for 35 years. It’s old. Ancient. Managing that relic for a large dinner requires a finesse I will never — and don’t care to — possess.

I have heard the tales and gaped at the lavish photos of Thanksgiving dinner table scenes. I know of the cooking champions who start preparing the cakes, pies and sides weeks out, who delight in making all manner of dishes that I have never heard of.

I have seen the images of exhausted hosts (always women) toiling over a hot stove to lay out lavish spreads. I have marveled at their talents

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