He who cooks the turkey...

I baked decadent Sweet Potato Soufflé, creamy mashed potatoes, and sausage/apple stuffing that was to die for.

I prepared Scandinavian bread sticks so rich they should have been chased by anti-cholesterol meds.

I caramelized and sautéed a vegetable side dish that looked as beautiful as it tasted.

I followed my mother’s pecan pie recipe, creating a dessert so tantalizingly delicious it would've turned famous bakers green with envy.

I whipped together a pumpkin pie so rich in flavor that adding whip cream would have been sacrilege.

And the table…it was beautiful. Warm, fall colors lit by candle light, bathed in ambiance.

The one item I didn’t prepare was the turkey, which my husband rotisseried on our barbecue.

While he played games with the kids, the turkey meticulously spun and baked. While I slaved in the kitchen, the turkey meticulously spun and baked. While I set the table, the turkey meticulously spun and baked.

Finally, while I timed every dish perfectly and placed them on the buffet with flourish and finesse, my husband retrieved the turkey from the grill and sliced it.

Roast turkey aroma filled the house, eclipsing everything else. It was perfect, as rotisserie meat always is...moist, flavorful, tender…the maestro to my supporting cast of side dishes…the crux of a successful Thanksgiving meal.

"Mmmmmm, this is delicious, Dad."

"Wow...this is perfect, Dad."

And all my husband did was skewer a bird and turn on the grill…

He who cooks the turkey gets the glory.