I dunno; I'm kind of sporadic about Thanksgiving habits.
The only thing that's regular is that the cats get half a can, each, of white-chicken-breast-and-water. The cats don't know any more about Thanksgiving than pigs do about Christmas, but it's something I do.
This Thanksgiving, I'm headed out to a roadside diner in a small town about 80 miles away. I'm taking along this guy originally from Omaha, a black guy who works as a masonry restoration specialist (plenty of that sort of work out here); because he is who he is, he gets lonely at times.
And besides, he always tells great army stories. He's easy to "read."
I have no idea what he'll have, probably the usual standard customary run-of-the-mill two-pound sirloin steak and all the fixings there, but I'm going to stick with turkey, mashed potatoes, corn, and gravy, lots and lots of it.
Then Thanksgiving evening, provided the anticipated heir isn't coming into the world quite then, I'll go over to the neighbor's house and dine on turkey, mashed potatoes, corn, and gravy, lots and lots of it. This is the neighbor with the red-headed wife, two twin infant daughters; the one who played midwife to that distressed cow several months ago, and the one who along with me got banged up by the stoned Buckeye on the highway.
If the anticipated heir is complicating things Thanksgiving Day, I'll just go over the river to the old guy's house, and we'll dine on Valentino's carry-out pizza while he reminescences about his late wife and tells me what he wants done with his place when he heads for his daughter, son-in-law, and two grandsons out in California in December.
All in all, it's reasonable to expect it'll be a good day, a mellow day.