Meanwhile, a Pilgrim, leaning back in his favorite hard chair and watching a game of Catch a Rock outside his picture window, calls to his wife in the kitchen.

"Could you believe that corn pudding stuff?"

"I thought it was pretty good."

"Good? It tasted like mush."

"Oh, sweetie. Everybody makes mush. The Italians, for example, they have mush. Risotto, they call it. And what about our bangers and mash? Mash by any other name is still mush."

"But … corn?" he says. "I think they liked having some good English cooking. By the way, hon, good Jell-O mold."

I DON'T KNOW WHICH one of us is the Pilgrim and which the Indian, but I like to think that Jessica and I are carrying on a Thanksgiving tradition by arguing over the food to serve at the day's feast.

Like boxers sizing each other up before the bell rings, Jessica and I begin by angling for psychological advantage with some shadow arguing. For example, what exactly do we want to do for Thanksgiving?

Do we want to travel? If so, where? To a family member's home? If so, whom? If not, where? Nearby? Faraway? Should we just stay here? Then what? Have people in? Who? Go to a relative's? To a friend's?

After deciding we are going to host the dinner, the real arguments begin: what dishes to make. Personally, I prefer a plate of enchiladas to turkey, but I lost that argument years ago. However, I did win the green-beans-in-cream-of-mushroom-soup-topped-with-canned-fried-onions argument. But that still leaves the argument over the dressing. Or stuffing. Whatever.

Jessica grew up in the South, where her mother always made corn-bread dressing. I grew up in the North, where my mother, leaving slices of white sandwich bread out to dry on the kitchen counter, made what I like to call traditional stale-bread dressing.