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Raise your hand: Who among you was relegated to the kids’ table during Thanksgiving? Y&H was.

I didn’t care, either. As a kid, I didn’t get Thanksgiving, at least the gathering around the table for hours and doing nothing but eating. I was an active little snot and didn’t like sitting among the adults, as they drunkenly shared stories, their faces turning redder and their voices louder as the empty wine bottles continued to stack up. It seemed boring to me. I’d rather be outside. Or watching television.

What can I say? I was a kid. I had big contradictions and little interest in eating rituals.

So the kids’ table provided all the freedom I needed. I could flee the long dinner with little or no detection. I could pretend to eat the dried-out turkey by stuffing the nasty meat into my cheeks like a chipmunk — and then spitting out the foul stuff later in the toilet.

I always got to the pumpkin pie much faster than the adults, which was one of my main goals. The other? To flee the scene before Uncle Jack started bitching at Aunt Mary about a minor kitchen infraction. Or some variation on that theme. There was always an argument at Thanksgiving. Always.

How ’bout you? What are your kids’ table stories?