Thanksgiving comes every year. It’s meant to be a celebration of gratitude and family values, right? But let’s be honest—who has time for gratitude when you’re busy planning an entire feast, coordinating family schedules, and gearing up for the Black Friday marathon the next day?

Between the sensory overload of all the people, the laughter and the arguments, the smells, and the food sounds (yes, food has a soundtrack), plus trying to manage your time between work commitments, grocery runs, and preparing to host, it can be a lot. And don’t forget the mad dash for those last-minute ingredients. Wait too long, and you’re in a bumper-cart derby at the grocery store!

Now, let me take you back to one of my first Thanksgiving hosting experiences. It was my first time hosting the in-laws, and let me tell you, Thanksgiving in the home I grew up in couldn’t hold a candle to my husband’s family feast. Picture this: his grandmother’s house packed with aunts, uncles, cousins—and food on every single surface. Turkey and ham, 2 or 3 pans of dressing, sweet potatoes with marshmallows, green bean casserole with yummy crunchy onions, mashed potatoes, and let’s not forget the pies. Oh, the pies! It felt like we were feeding the entire after-church crowd from Luby’s.

Fast forward a few years, and now I’m hosting Thanksgiving at our new rental with three school-age kids, and my in-laws, Grandma and Grandpa, were coming to visit. I had done my due diligence: shopped at Kroger, prepped all the ingredients, and enlisted the help of the wonderful woman who shared my last name (a.k.a. my mother-in-law) to tackle the feast together.

Thanksgiving morning arrived. We turned on the oven to put in the big bird, and BAM! The oven exploded. No joke. My first thought? Complete and utter failure. The very thing that would finally earn me my “official womanhood” card—cooking Thanksgiving dinner for the in-laws—literally went up in smoke. I had dreams of serving a perfect meal, impressing Grandma, the expert sweet potato casserole maker with a palate so refined she could tell you if you deviated from the family recipe. I just wanted to live up to my name—Mrs. Bomar—and earn those precious bragging rights that come with successfully hosting Thanksgiving.

But instead, my big opportunity went out the window along with the old, malfunctioning oven that had clearly seen better days.

What happened next? Honestly, it’s a bit of a blur. What I do remember is that Grandpa and my husband made a quick trip to Kroger and came back with—wait for it—hotdogs and chips. So, that year we had a Fourth of July in November. And you know what? It was awesome.