In my fantasies, I don’t imagine dinner with Voltaire (happy birthday, V.) or Abraham Lincoln or Will Rogers. I don’t picture in my head what I would serve to the Dalai Lama, or Matt Damon (the sexiest man alive) or George Clooney. No, when I seat imaginary guests at my dinner table, they’re chefs. Right now, I can think of no more fun guests to have than Michael Symon of Lola and John Besh of Restaurant August. They both went to the finals of the Next Iron Chef competition and they made great food, and were really funny and fun. (Michael Symon, shaved head intense-looking, has a shotgun giggle that I find terrifically endearing.)

I write for an imaginary audience. What some people call the ideal reader. I cook for a couple of audiences. My husband, especially. But also for the ideal eater. And chefs seem to me to be people steeped in food. Demanding, of course. Understanding and catholic—they get food and what was done with it, and they have to be able to eat broadly. Not all chefs, of course. A chef is the guy in charge of the kitchen. He is the one who creates the menu, tells the line cooks and dishwashers what to do. He’s a business manager. The guy in the local Big Boy is technically a chef. But that’s not what I mean. I admire a good chef’s ability to meet price points and organize a kitchen, but what I want is someone who really really thinks a lot about food.

Thanksgiving is a balancing act between the real and the imaginary. My Thanksgiving Menu, posted below the cut, reflects that.

Pumpkin Soup
Turkey
Sausage and apple stuffing
Mashed potatoes
Sweet potato casserole
Rolls
Cranberry Sauce (with ridges from can)
Sour Cherry and Cranberry Relish
Roasted Green Beans

Pumpkin Pie with whipped cream
Shelly’s Apple Pie with Caroline’s homemade ice cream
Coffee with Amaretto

(You will note, that for people who have some sort of twisted nostalgia for that canned abomination called ‘cranberry sauce’–like, say, Bob–I will have it on my table. But I will also make a Sour Cherry Cranberry Relish, just to make my point. A balance of realistic and ideal.)

I started preparing for the menu a couple of weeks ago when I made stock. In my imaginary world, stock has attained an almost mythic importance. Stock, I am convinced, is what separates the wanna be’s from the real cooks. That’s because I read that somewhere. There are dozens of kinds of stock, but I make five. Browned chicken stock, clear chicken stock, and brown beef stock. I will on occasion whip up a vegetable stock because it’s easy. And I will make turkey stock. I don’t make veal stock (white or browned) or lamb stock, because I don’t eat grocery store veal (long story and rather boring) and if I get my hands on some lamb, trust me, I’m not going to make stock out of it. I don’t make duck stock for the same reason.

But I’ve spent a lot of time working out the kind of chicken stock I like. I make my chicken stock in a four gallon stock pot. It takes about twelve hours. And it drives the dog nuts because the house smells like stock. I like brown chicken stock better than clear chicken stock (brown because the chicken parts and the vegetables are roasted and caramelized) and since I only have so much room, that’s what I make. It’s a pain in the ass. If I were honest, I would ask myself, why am I doing this? Do I really think that the difference between stock from the store and the stuff I make is enough that people who eat my pumpkin soup are going to be overwhelmed by the depth and complexity of the base and without knowing why, respond in some primal way to the stuff in front of them in the bowl? Yes, I do. Is that rational? Would anybody really enjoy the meal any less if I got a couple of quarts of decent chicken stock at H.E. B.?

Okay, probably not. And that whole business about brining the turkey? Okay. Maybe a little over the top. The ‘no canned sweet potatoes’ rule? Either obsessive or pretentious or, most honestly, both.

But if Mario Batalli, chef owner of Babbo, happens to stop by, he’ll know.

May you all have a good Thanksgiving in which you focus on what is really important–good company. Oh, and pumpkin pie made from scratch.