A more correct term for a certain holiday made of high cholesterol and high anxiety is “Angst-giving.” At no single time are we more at ease, and more vulnerable.

Familial bliss has been shattered around many a turkey at mom’s house. It isn’t just debates over cranberry sauce versus whole cranberries, nor dressing in or out of turkey’s cavities. However, I do admit to one November I swore to eat vegan- not a good idea.

My mom has been privvy to discussions about extra-marital affairs, adoptions, jobs gained and lost, and me leaping out of a particularly confining closet. Pass yonder sweet potatoes, please.

Mom always had four bottles of wine available for Angst-giving: merlot, chardonnay, a pink confection of some sort, and a celebratory bubbly. It was a matter of necessity. By Christmas, all would be a hazy blur.

Now my sister hosts Angst-giving. I show up early to bake and baste. I sit in a corner and wait, because her children are now old enough to pick up where we left off.

Wine?