My Porcinis and Sage, Their Kugel and Casserole

What menu would satisfy both of us?

[an error occurred while processing this directive]

"Do what you want," my friend Regan advised. Regan had faced a similar situation the previous Christmas when she entertained her father and sister for the first time in her one-bedroom apartment. They told Regan not to fuss, but she ignored them and went all out, roasting a leg of lamb with rosemary and black olives, whipping up creamy polenta, even baking a pie from scratch. "They would have been happy with takeout Chinese," Regan remembered. "I did it all to make myself happy." And she was.

"Do what they want," warned my friend Lorin. She had given that year's Passover dinner an upgrade and felt the family's wrath. Instead of the matzoh ball soup from the box, she'd slaved over a homemade saffron chicken soup with spinach matzoh balls. Her husband declared it "avant-garde," then added sarcastically that it had helped him to "push his culinary boundaries" -- even if he'd been happier right where he was.

For once in my life, I decided to listen to my dad, whose mantra is "everything in moderation." Some things would stay: my stepmother Anne's carrot-sweet potato puree, and Grandma's cranberry apple crisp, which I love as a leftover. Ditto my aunt's kugel, which inexplicably has always been part of our Thanksgiving table. But I was hellbent on making Brussels sprouts, shredded and sauteed in butter to tame the bitterness -- and the inevitable complaints. And instead of my hoity-toity mushroom salad, I dressed up the stuffing with porcini mushrooms, hazelnuts and sage, and I tossed carrots in an orange Moroccan vinaigrette. And I roasted a whole turkey, not just the breast, and basted it in sage butter and cider.

The cooking took two days. At 4 p.m. I set everything on the table and held my breath. One by one, family members came in to fill their plates. They oohed and ahhed and were generally thankful, if only that they hadn't had to do any of the cooking. Grandma was the last in line.

"Oh, Janie, it looks beautiful," she said, taking a little bit of everything. "What's in the stuffing?"

"Ummmm," I said nervously. "Porcini mushrooms."

"It smells delicious."

Why had I worried? In the fog of my food frenzy I had forgotten that Grandma thinks everything I do is perfect.

As we sat down to eat, everyone raised a glass to the cook. "I'm so glad you like it," I said. "Even if I didn't make the zucchini casserole."

"Oh, yeah," said my sister Hilary. "How come you didn't make the zucchini? I love that zucchini."

"I can't believe you didn't make the zucchini," my sister Kate chimed in.

This year, guess what's back on the menu?