Claire Bidwell Smith

The first Thanksgiving dinner I attempted to cook after my mother
died was quite a disaster, as was the second and the third and even
the FOURTH. But the fourth was surely the worst. Each of these dinners
followed a similar pattern: undercooked potatoes, overcooked turkey,
mushy greens and runny pumpkin pie. But it was the fourth dinner where
everything really came together and emerged in the most spectacular mess
of them all.

On this particular Thanksgiving decided to aim for
more of a group effort. This way, if it all went south at least I
wouldn't be held solely responsible. A motley crew of us gathered at my
father's condo in South California. My friend Liz was there, a
self-professed terrible cook, and my friend Holly, who has always showed
a bit more enthusiasm than talent in the kitchen, and her sister Laura
who was working as an inexperienced cook in Colorado. My elderly cousin
Q, Holly's husband Kevin and possibly a random neighbor were also all in
attendance.

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