It's 4 a.m. on Thanksgiving morning — a good three hours before the daylong cooking marathon typically begins. I'm awakened by rustling and light banging coming from the kitchen of my mom's childhood home. After stumbling around in the dark to find my glasses and a robe, I sneak into the hallway, where I run into my mom, who was also heading downstairs to check out the commotion.
"Turkey burglar?" she jokes as we softly pad, sock footed, toward the darkened kitchen.
