My family and I have never exactly been Thanksgiving purists. My mother, who performed holiday cooking duties throughout my childhood, has always been a restless cook, her eye easily caught by the latest cranberry sauce variation or trendy string bean concoction. Noncanonical dishes often snuck onto the table, unannounced; I remember at least one mid-1990s pad thai discovered squatting between the gravy and mashed potatoes. Still, my brother, my father, and I formed enough of a tradition-minded coalition to insist on the general shape of the classic Thanksgiving meal. There are 364 days of the year for experimentation, went our thinking; this one was for turkey, even if, once my brother and I both moved to New Orleans, almost thirteen years ago,
