I always dreaded Thanksgiving. As a kid and once-picky eater, the holiday loomed at the end of November as a seven-hour obstacle course: I would sweep my plate out of the way of ladles of gravy, duck under toasts of bubbly Martinelli's, and dodge relatives who would inevitably stop me to ask why wasn't I eating and was I really a vegetarian on Thanksgiving, too? The only thing that motivated me to sit in my seat and make up excuses — rather than lock myself in the bathroom with a plate of buttered rolls for sustenance — was the promise of pumpkin pie at the end of the night.