When I was growing up, the Thanksgiving menu was anchored by the big bird, stuffing, and two kinds of potatoes — mashed white and sumptuous sweet. On both ends of the table, baskets overflowed with Parker House rolls, slathered with enough butter to clog the spunkiest arteries. Adding splotches of color to the meal were fresh carrots, string beans, and homemade gravy, steaming hot and studded with chunks of turkey giblets. (Ugh!)

Creamed onions rounded out the meal. Not canned, but the white pearly kind, gently boiled and then tucked into sauce thick enough to repair loose bricks in the chimney.

No one would have missed the cranberry sauce but Mother always remembered. The table was not complete until the glistening ruby cylinder was placed on the table, still quivering from the delicate

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