My family has an unusual holiday tradition. Our Thanksgiving meal is not the Norman Rockwell painting “Freedom from Want” turkey and trimmings. It began that way though. For the first ten years of marriage and motherhood, I would attempt to faithfully recreate the Thanksgiving meal that I grew up with. I would spend what felt like an eternity in the kitchen chopping, peeling, boiling, and baking all in preparation for …… whining. “Do we have to eat that?” was the nasal chorus I would hear from my ( then) four children. I would grit my teeth and threaten them with vacations to Third World countries in futile attempts to increase…