Thanks-goodness

It's only 9 am, but already in the hallways of my apartment building I can catch the distinctive whiff of charred meat. Hello, isn't it a bit too early to be burning your turkey?

New York is a city where no one seems to cook. Look around, and it's not difficult to understand why. In my immediate neighborhood the choices are almost mind-boggling. Would you like French, Chinese, Indian, Japanese, Korean, Italian, Thai, Vietnamese, Ethiopian, Peruvian, Cuban, Argentinian, or Mexican tonight? No? Then perhaps southern comfort food, steak, or "new American" would fit the bill better. And would you like to eat in, or take out, or get it delivered? For the overworked, harried professionals who inhabit this little island, restaurants are an irresistible convenience.

But the holidays roll around, and then suddenly everyone - even the socialite who's converted her kitchen into a giant shoe closet - turns domestic. Half of them can't find the way to their oven. The other half end up cutting themselves while peeling potatoes. And I putter around under a cloud of carbonized meat, assembling the side dishes I'm taking over to my sister's apartment.