This Thanksgiving, my mother played the guilt card and if I didn’t drive her to my cousins she would sit home and ‘knit.’ "Don't worry about it. You go and have a nice time," she added for a nifty, little kicker.

I don’t have warm and fuzzy memories of the holiday with family. My best ones were/are with friends or the many years Ronny and I went up to a run down farmhouse in the country and picked frozen apples off the tree and made applesauce, his brother came out, they fussed over a turkey, pies, the whole nine yards, we spend three great days chopping wood, playing instruments, eating and looking forward to the first uncorked bottle of the evening.

I love Ethel. She’s feisty, still drives, goes to work but easily gets lost after dark. So what do I do when she plays Jewish mother? Where I used to dig my heels in and say “Hell, no,” now I look at the calendar, wonder how many years left she has to play her favorite guilt inflicting role and I say, "I’ll cancel my plans. I’ll drive."

I’d say she’s as happy as a clam, but that’s not kosher. She’s as happy as a piece of kishka.

But while I made the decision, there is something nagging at me. I feel just a little sullen. I’ve been catapulted back to my teen years and I can’t stop that trapped feeling from burbling up. I have twenty-four hours to attitude adjust.

And I will.

I thought about what wine I could bring to share with everyone ( very few wine drinkers amongst the crowd) that would sweeten the pot.

Two magnums of 2004 Desvignes Morgon? That would do it.

My host (little cousin) said, sorry. Disallowed! Not possible. The Sands Point Country Club (just for the record, going to a ‘club’ on a holiday seems rather grim to m.) will not allow me to bring wine to their premises.

I’ve seen their wine list.

It seems I'll have to have my Thanksgiving wine tonight 'cause tomorrow it will be seltzer or scotch.