Cooking is not my happy place. Any meal that needs more than three ingredients and a stove sends me searching for takeout menus. Thankfully, at Thanksgiving my sister hosts a family feast, which means I get to show up with something safe: lefse already buttered and divided into brown- and white-sugar plates. But here’s the thing: I feel guilty about not cooking. Like there’s some unwritten rule that says “real Thanksgiving women” spend three days in the kitchen, humming hymns while basting turkeys. And that little twinge of guilt? Continue Reading