I’d like to think of myself as being a modern, evolving, and accepting human being, one that is open to change, considers other’s ideas and suggestions, and constantly alters set patterns of behavior in hopes of achieving self-growth and a new perspective. However, there are some things I just don’t mess with. Take Thanksgiving dinner, for instance. I know, I know, it’s a wild and changing world out there—many others are achieving growth by glazing their birds with exotic fruit juices, smoking them in the backyard in big old garbage pails or even taking the plunge and tossing their ode to our country’s heritage in frightfully deep vats of boiling oil. They all make for delicious meals, I am sure. You just won’t find them in my home.Call me a foodie hypocrite, a culinary closet conservative, or whatever you like. On this day I don’t budge on my traditions, and, year after year, sit my family down to a classic meal of roast turkey with herbed stuffing, mashed potatoes, creamed onions, baby peas, and pumpkin and apple pies, respectively, all just like my mother made when I was a kid. I confess to one tiny slip-up in my traditionalism: my sister-in-law’s cranberry relish: too good not to introduce into our family ritual, even though, I still put out the jellied can stuff so as not to offend the die-hards.Occasionally, I get the 7-year turkey itch and my Thanksgiving routine temporarily feels boring. My mind may stray for an instant while looking at glossy magazine pictures exploring the new twists on bird stuffing, side dishes, or pie crusts, imagining what it may be like to prepare and eat these. But, before I can do any real damage in disrupting a solid and loving food family, my innate culinary instinct (a solid chunk of my DNA structure) kicks in, demanding and driving me to produce the traditional Thanksgiving dinner year after year. So far, I have heard no complaints from my family, just a whole lot of chewing.