My first Thanksgiving as a married woman, I invited my in-laws to our tiny apartment. I bought a Ready-to-Cook turkey, unwrapped it and stuck it in the oven, as instructed. I folded up the couch-bed and readied the living room to receive guests. I made the stuffing, cooked the yams, opened the cranberry sauce and sliced it nicely onto a platter. After a couple of hours, my husband came back from his medical school gynecology shift and asked, “What’s that smell?” He opened the oven, slid the turkey out, reached into its crotch and pulled out the smoking giblet bag.
