A day before Thanksgiving, and we’re in good shape. Turkey: arrived yesterday (thank you, Fresh Direct!). Decor: set. Booze: guests are bringing bottles of wine and Champagne. E was off this morning for the last trip to the greenmarket for fresh asparagus, greens, herbs and potatoes. That should be all for the food shopping.

Since we didn’t have time or the room in our refrigerator to make elaborate meals in the days leading up to Thanksgiving, I made some quick rotisserie chicken sandwiches with cranberry sauce and kale the other night. Being that our 20 pound turkey would yield leftovers, we needed to get used to poultry with cranberry sauce for the next week.

E and I already didn’t see eye to eye on one Thanksgiving dish—the cranberry sauce. “It’s so sweet,” he complained. I used orange juice, sugar, cranberries and a bit of orange zest, the most common recipe for cranberry sauce you’ll find. It was perfect. E was just picky.

“How about next time I slice off a piece of cranberry sauce from the can?” I responded.

My mother served that gross canned stuff for years. No one ate it except my father, whose taste buds, I believe, are less reliable than average after years of smoking. I think he liked it because the round slices made for firm layers on a day-after turkey sandwich in between lettuce and stuffing. But some holiday traditions are made to be broken, and I will never serve nor eat that god-awful gelatinous tube of fake fruit. E was never going to either.

“Not in my house. There will NEVER be canned cranberry sauce in my house.”

“In OUR house,” I said. “And I’ll cut back on the sugar in my sauce on Thursday. Just for you.”

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