Once again Y&H spent Thanksgiving dinner with Mrs. Y&H's parents, and once again, a magnificent feast was laid before us — roast turkey, oyster dressing, crudites, cranberry sauce, sweet potatoes, green-bean casserole,  rolls, fudge pie, pecan pie, and all the wine we wanted to drink.

As we pulled out of the driveway, fat and happy, here are a few of the things Y&H felt grateful for:

• That no one wanted to give our beagle-pig mix, Coltrane, the blue juice after he swiped a generous slice of turkey breast right off the dinner table.

• That Carrie managed to save the sweet potatoes after being called to the dinner table for grace. By the time we blessed the Lord for our bounty, part of our bounty was toast. The marshmallow topping on the sweet potatoes, set to warm under the broiler, looked like dead crickets.
•  That there are no rules governing the topics of conversation at the Thanksgiving dinner table. Among those up for discussion yesterday: Area 51 (will it be opened to the public?), chimpanzee violence (why genitals seem particularly vulnerable to attack), and parental confessions about their youth (fake IDs and under-age drinking!).
• That Carrie doesn't like oyster dressing (the godforsaken celery!), which leaves more of that delicious stuff for Y&H.
• That Kay and Stuart (aka Y&H's in-laws) set aside some of the gizzards for a certain misbehaving beagle.
• That Uncle Hobs willingly suffered a rib injury to defend Y&H's honor in a barroom fight (or so he explains the malady).
• That Stuart continues to insist that no one (other than him, of course) has acquired the appropriate skills to wash the dishes yet.
• That Y&H continues to have the best in-laws anyone could ever hope for.

Another family Thanksgiving is history, and I have plenty to be thankful for. Among the blessings I'm counting:

• That my mother-in-law Kay's very first brined turkey (apparently suggested by me last year in a fit of drunken expansiveness on ways to keep breast meat moist) was not a flop. I had visions of the family serving me a side dish of cold resentment.
• That my dinner rolls, based on Cook's Illustrated's 48-hour cool rise recipe, were not a complete disaster after I allowed them to rise only 16 hours in the refrigerator. What was I thinking? Two days on dinner rolls? It's like spending 48 hours to rotate your tires.
• That my wife, Carrie, was able to salvage her tasty, bite-size appetizer after discovering that plastic wrap turns golden beets the most unappetizing shade of purplish-green when covered with the evil clingy stuff in the fridge.
• That our fat, foraging beagle, Coltrane Meatsack, did not once try to get on the table and grab himself a turkey carcass. (You think I'm joking? The dog routinely walks across our dining room table during parties when we're busy in the kitchen. The screams that this act elicits from guests are blood-curdling.)

• That our fat, foraging beagle did not once puke.
• That only one water glass was broken during dinner preparations, and the accident made my mother-in-law extremely happy. She's been wanting to replace that glass for years—the same one that her husband, Stuart, loves. He remained silent on the incident.
• That the 1972 Burgundy that Kay and Stuart's friend, Doug, brought to the dinner had not turned completely to vinegar.
• That I didn't have to do the dishes.
• That no one talked about the failed banking system, mortgage-backed securities, or the fact that I think I wore the same clothes to last year's Thanksgiving dinner.
• That the old picture Carrie wanted to show us of her hugging President Bush turned out to be, in fact, her hugging George Herbert Walker Bush.
• That I have the best in-laws you could ever hope for.