It is 197-something and there are cats on the kitchen counter pulling apart the cooked bird with their claws and fangs. It is 199-something and a slobbery Rottweiler mix has hold of a turkey leg and the entire baking pan with turkey in it is heading closer to the counter’s edge. It is every single Thanksgiving and someone is pulling the bag of giblets from the cooked turkey’s cavity and saying (every single Thanksgiving): It wasn’t there before. It is the 21st century and I’ve made baked smashed yams with apples and I’ve made a parsnip/onion/kale saute and I don’t have to check the turkey’s cavity this year or worry about animals scavenging kitchens. The cold is clearing from my head, my son is not so picky anymore that he won’t eat turkey, we are driving north to be with family, there are no bombs raining down on our little portion of world. We are massively thankful types. We care, we care, we care. May you enjoy the day, may you eat well, may you be blessed with firelight (unless you’re still having a heatwave) and more than a few laughs and may you find your pretty birds whole and shiny and hot when you go to serve them instead of devoured by pets and may you pull apart the wishbone favorably. And may all your turkeys—vegan, human, jokes, some cars, situations you’d really rather forget, old boyfriends, poems, certain side dishes made with parsnips—may all your turkeys, made-up or otherwise, be…