I put the phone down on the kitchen counter, walked to the nearest wall and began to gently bang my head against it. Paradise, I thought to myself, we’re going to Paradise for Thanksgiving.

The first bad news is that Paradise is a little town in Texas with nothing going for it but a gas station on the so-called Main Street and a Dairy Queen out on the highway. The second bad news is that my husband Brian absolutely hates Paradise. I grew up there, so I’m a little more tolerant of the quirks of small-town Texas, but Brian is from San Francisco and he can’t quite understand that people actually live in a place with no hills, no ocean and – worst of all – no good wine or interesting restaurants.

We’ve avoided visiting Paradise since our wedding through a contrived pattern of excuses and schedules. Instead, we’ve gone on cruises with my family and vacations with them to Las Vegas and Boston – anything to keep us out of Texas, but this year I fell into my mother’s trap. Her call began innocently enough with the usual interrogation about why we didn’t have any children. While I was busy fending off the baby question, she changed the subject and asked us to come for Christmas. I launched into my well-rehearsed spiel of business obligations and prior commitments, but she countered with a Thanksgiving invitation and I went totally blank. My excuses were used up and our calendar was empty. I banged my head against the wall a few more times and thought about ways to break the bad news to Brian.

. . .

Traveling to Paradise went smoothly enough. The plane to Dallas was on time, the rental car didn’t break down and we dutifully arrived at my childhood home, ready to be pleasant guests. Unfortunately, we were greeted at the door by my father and his newest bird dog, Jake, who proceeded to jump up on Brian, knock him to the ground and pee all over his shoes. I intervened before Brian throttled the puppy, but not before he got off a few choice words about stupid dogs and their stupid owners. It didn’t help that Daddy laughed and kept saying that Jake was just being friendly.

I went on into the house and found my mother in the kitchen, struggling with a huge turkey. She gave me a big hug and, suddenly, I felt sort of happy that we’d made the trip. There’s no place like home, I thought, willing myself to forget about Brian’s wet feet.

. . .

On Thanksgiving morning, Mother assembled us in the kitchen and announced her plan: Daddy and Brian would fry the turkey for dinner. It would be easy and only take an hour, so they would have plenty of time beforehand to talk or watch a ball game or go hunting with the dog. Brian and I locked eyes and he silently mouthed, “Help me” but I ignored his plea. A little male bonding with my father would be good for him.

And so we went to work: I joined my mother in her kitchen and helped as she prepared the food of all her Thanksgivings. I remembered seeing my grandmother use the same bowls and the same recipes and I cried a little and missed her. I cut up the bananas and oranges and mixed in the coconut for the ambrosia that I remembered was my grandfather’s favorite.

Daddy and Brian came back unscathed from their morning’s hunt. Brian gave me a big thumbs up, which I took to mean that no shots were fired and no birds were killed – or maybe that he and Daddy had avoided having an argument about politics, religion or world affairs.

. . .

It turned out that nobody had actually fried a turkey before, so it was understandable that the accident happened. Daddy fired up the gas cooker out in the back yard and heated the peanut oil to the proper temperature. He and Brian held the turkey just above the pot, slowly lowered the bird and suddenly realized the boiling oil was overflowing as the turkey settled to the bottom. Brian jumped back and tripped over Jake. Daddy let go of the turkey and ran for the fire extinguisher to put out the flames as the oil started burning. Mother and I watched from the kitchen window, and then began to call the rest of the family. Thanksgiving dinner would be a little later than usual this year.

. . .

The fried turkey turned out to be delicious and Brian’s arm was only broken in one place. We sat beside each other at the big table and I coaxed him to try everything, even the ambrosia. “Ambrosia” is the food of the gods in Greek mythology, I told him. What else would you eat in Paradise?