We thought we were adults when we turned 18 and voted.

We knew we were grown when we walked - OK, sprinted - into a bar to order our first beer.

By the time we were married and had babies we believed we were ready for the council of elders.

Hah.

These milestones were just warm-ups - little lagniappes - on the way to the one true test of maturity: being the host of Thanksgiving dinner.

Nothing in life prepares you for the first time you orchestrate a meal of this magnitude. Not only must you squeeze multiple people around a too-small table, but you must prepare a feast to be consumed at an unaccustomed hour, one with 20 pounds of poultry as its centerpiece, surrounded by a minimum of 10 side dishes, including a bowl of creamed onions. That's not all. That orgy of food must be chased by at least two homemade pies, with a choice of whipped cream or ice cream topping.

Anyone who can successfully maestro that mess can rule the world.

During my childhood, my paternal grandmother - a sweet butterball from Brooklyn - handled the honors. She never broke a sweat, uttered a cross word or had a sip of alcohol during the entire Thanksgiving production. That's saying something when you consider that she didn't even own a dishwasher.

From my grandmother I learned this: The flavor of a pie is inversely proportional to its beauty. Her crusts were homely, her pies were sumptuous. There's a lesson there somewhere.

After Grandma passed, Thanksgiving fell on my mother's bony shoulders. Another teetotaler. Another unremarkable cook. My mother wisely stuck with family favorites, adding just her own hint of Velveeta to the offerings. The best that could be said for Mom's Thanksgiving was that it was punctual.

When she declared that dinner would be at 3, that meant the blessing would be pronounced then. Dishes would be launched counterclockwise around the table by 3:01.

Then, suddenly, my mother announced that it was my turn.

I'm not proud to admit this, but initially I was drunk with holiday power. A Thanksgiving tyrant. That very first year I initiated a dress code, a seating plan and added soup to the menu. A bisque made from apples and sherry.

It's impossible to exaggerate how unpopular these changes were.

But there was no stopping me. One by one I brazenly revised our middle-brow menu to make it fancier. Gougeres replaced celery sticks and Cheez Whiz as appetizers. Creme fraiche nudged out ordinary white sauce. I added wine to everything.

My biggest mistake? I eliminated Dad's favorite dish - cole slaw - and substituted a braised red cabbage casserole that sat forlornly at the end of the table.

Besides horrifying my family with this increasingly preposterous production, I wore myself out.

But after a few of these misguided meals, I learned a thing or two about Thanksgiving. So here's some free advice to the boss of today's feast. You don't have to thank me.

Quick. Take a shower. While you still have time.

Don't worry about not having 10 side dishes. Nine is more than enough.

Bake good pies. No one should have to eat creamed onions without a promise of a rich pecan pie for dessert.

Lastly, relax. These are friends and family at your table. They'll love you no matter what.

Although magazines and cookbooks say otherwise, Thanksgiving is not all about the food. It's about the folks who gather together.

For that - and for so much more - we can all be thankful.