The first time we hosted my in-laws for Thanksgiving, I was 25 years old, married only six months, clueless — and nervous — about preparing my first Thanksgiving dinner ever. I called my older sister in Detroit and asked her about stuffing a turkey. She told me to reach into the cavity, pull out the “icky stuff,” then prepare the dressing and stuff the bird.
Gingerly, I did as she said, and put the stuffed turkey into the oven. A couple of hours later, my sister called back. “Did you get the bag out of the other end, too?” she asked.