In recent years, the turkey torch has been passed to the next generation. And I wasn’t ready.

I loved the decades of Thanksgiving when everyone sat around my pedestal-style mahogany dining room table that had belonged to my mother. I enjoyed making corn pudding in our special way, a recipe passed down through my family. I liked the random group of people we always had: the usual family and friends, plus a mix of people from the office, church, or our neighborhood who just needed a place to hang out. vacation. A work colleague who lived alone attended our vacations for eight consecutive years.

I even loved the imperfections that have become a holiday tradition. The rookie mistake I made was leaving the giblets in the bird. Or when the dog licked the cheese off the salad (no comment on the fact that I served it). Or that year my husband, brother and I were taking a whole turkey off the grill and dropping it on the ground in the dark yard (no comment on whether we served it either ). And while I’m being honest, I’ll admit that I also loved the oohs and aahs I received as a host when things went well.

I felt comfortable in my role as host, preferring to work in the kitchen rather than conversing in the living room. And then this feeling of accomplishment: sitting down with a last glass of wine at the end of the night, feet on the coffee table, feeling like I’ve given everyone a great time.

When I hit my 60s, I thought I had at least 10 more Thanksgivings to host! I thought the next generation wouldn’t get the turkey baster until they snatched it from my cold, dead hands.

But I should have paid more attention to my wonderful mother-in-law, another longtime holiday host until she and her husband moved to be near their grandchildren and the gathering moved in our house.

When I first started planning Thanksgiving, she would put it off until dinner was over and offer to help. Then she would get the butter dish, take it to the kitchen, put it in the refrigerator and return to the living room. “I’ll just stay away,” she said.

Back then, looking at a messy kitchen on vacation, I was bored. Why wasn’t she helping? But now I understand. She used to be the hostess in her own way: In her kitchen, she made her cranberry Jello salad (each individual mold was carefully prepared on a piece of iceberg lettuce). But at my house, on Thanksgiving, she didn’t really know who she was: a family member, a guest, someone in between? What were the rules? Could she be hanging out in the kitchen? Was a cleaning planned or would she get in the way?