BY JULIE SEYLER
When I was growing up, Thanksgiving always had a pattern. My mother hosted one year, my Aunt Liz the following year, and my Aunt Millie the next year. 
If it was at Millie’s my father would inevitably grumble how he would never go again because that drive to Long Island was impossible, but of course we went. My male cousins, completely incommunicado, hovered in front of the football games until they were forced to sit at their own “children’s” table.I seem to distinctly remember that the adults, aunts, uncles, cousins, and my parents, were always passionately engaged in political discussions. These were the days of the Vietnam War and Watergate, and the back-and-forth repartee took us from apps to dessert.
Of course, there was a huge turkey (my cousin Leslie and I always hung around the kitchen competing for the best piece of skin while it was being carved) sweet potato casserole with marshmallows, Pepperidge Farm stuffing, canned jelled cranberry sauce and store-bought pies. We were not a creative cooking group, nor a baking family. Not until my cousin Richard met Martha did we finally have a couple of home made pies on the table. And so that is the Thanksgiving in my mind.
The Write Side of 59 