Martha Stewart is not expected at our family gathering, so there will be no homemade paper bag luminaries lining the walkway to the front door.
The front hall will not be decorated with swags of heirloom Indian corn cobs and fall foliage, but rather my children’s hand-painted artwork from third grade. The mud spots across the floor are the personal touch of my significant other’s and my own work boots.
If possible, we will use dishes that match and everyone will get a fork.
Since this is Thanksgiving, I will refrain from using our now vintage plastic Peter Rabbit cups or napkins left over from Fourth of July. Our centerpiece will not be a tower of fresh fruit and flowers. Instead, I will display my mother’s pilgrim-shaped fan foldout that I played with like a paper doll as a child.
We will be dining fashionably late while my parents entertain with stories of improved health after their latest procedures and how aqua-size classes are coming along.  Hopefully, I am done with my choice comments I’ve made all day regarding Thanksgiving, pilgrims and the turkey hotline.
Most of these comments are made around 5 a.m. when I discover the turkey is still hard enough to cut diamonds and we forgot to put vodka on the shopping list.
I will try to convince my boyfriend that it is tribal drumming music he hears coming from the meadow neighbors when he is insisting it sounds more like a frozen turkey in the clothes dryer.
The day will roll on and the kitchen will continue to hold me hostage until those final moments that everyone is waiting for. I am toying with the idea of ringing a dainty silver bell to announce the start of our feast, but in the end we will most likely keep with our tradition of gathering ’round the table when the smoke alarm goes off.
In a spirit of harmony, I will allow my college-maturated teenagers to no longer sit in a separate room, but rather join us at the table.
Now, I know we have all seen pictures of one person carving a turkey in front of a crowd of “Leave It to Beaver” descendants, expressing their appreciation and awe.  This will not be happening at our dinner.
For safety reasons, the turkey will be carved in a private ceremony in the kitchen where no one can laugh or notice bone fragments smoking in rejection of my electric knife.  Whether there are more overheard choice comments or not, no need to check on my progress. The turkey is unarmed so it stands to reason I will eventually win.  And when I do, we will all eat.
Here I take the opportunity to give thanks for my unpretentious life full of people who love me anyway and plead ignorance to any flavors or textures no one in the room recognizes.
Dessert will be served in one option rather than 12: the time-tested pumpkin pie with whipped cream and one thumb-dip mark.  But everyone will still have a choice:  take it or leave it!
Happy Thanksgiving everyone.