My wife Pam says that I think about food a lot. Once I get this column started, I plan to eat a pumpkin muffin that is out in the kitchen. I’m looking forward to that.

At various times in my life, I’ve been chunky to a tad overweight. You don’t get to be that way without thinking about food. There are some cookies in the cupboard in case that muffin isn’t enough.

Speaking of thinking about food, we are midway between the two big dinners of the year: Thanksgiving and Christmas. I was thinking about those. Of course.

You could rank Easter dinner up there. But I’d put it third behind Thanksgiving and Christmas. I’ve enjoyed 69 years of those holiday feasts. Actually 68. One Christmas was spent at a bar in Dublin in college. I remember sipping a Guinness and thinking about my mom’s Christmas dinner that I was missing.

I want to give a shout out to the creators of all those feasts. The first couple of decades, that was my mom, Alyce. Following were many prepared by Pam. There’ve been a scattering of others where sisters-in-laws were head chefs. Now there have been a few by daughters and nieces. That’s three generations of eating.

I have tried to be helpful. Sometimes that meant peeling potatoes or doing dishes. Other times that meant staying out of the way and watching football with the other males.

Looking back, my mom’s holiday dinners had a German Bohemian styling. She was only a generation removed from the old country. One can picture her learning at the apron of her grandmother who in turn was a little girl across the sea.

At times, Alyce made milk soup, raw fried potatoes, and schmeurkuchen. Now I’m hungry thinking about those. Excuse me while I get that muffin.

I’m back. My mom had a standard holiday dish that I’m sure had roots in Bohemian villages. That was a bread dumpling that one dipped into a cup of warm, liquified goose fat.

I know. That sounds mildly disgusting. “Ach. Nein. Es schmeckt gut.” (That was German, which I knew once. “Ein Bier, bitte” is the only other phrase I remember.)

Most of my feasts featured turkey. Occasionally there was ham, sometimes both. I don’t ever remember a vegan alternative being offered. At times, a young member of the family was practicing vegetarianism. They just ate a lot of potatoes.

For years, it was my job to take the meat off the turkey carcass for leftovers. That is big job if you are really going to get it all. You begin to feel like a vulture tearing at the flesh of the bird.

It is necessary if you are going to eat turkey sandwiches for the next week. Those are wonderful on wheat bread with mayo. We also made turkey tetrazzini with the leftovers following “Kevin Kluesner’s mom’s recipe.” That’s what it says on the yellowed recipe card. Kevin was a college friend. I assume his mom has gone to that big kitchen in the sky.

Of course, with turkey there is stuffing, aka dressing. It’s the part of the meal that you’re not sure what’s really in there. My mom’s began with frying up all those semi-gross parts of the turkey: gizzards, heart, lungs. Those came in a little sack inside the bird when Pam and I bought a turkey. An appreciative farm dog got those.

Later, we made Stove Top stuffing out a box. Our kids loved it and it was easy. It strikes me now that Stove Top stuffing is a UPF, an ultra-processed food. Nutritionists discourage us from eating UPFs. Sadly, that includes Twinkies. When I was 10, Twinkies seemed to be the perfect food.

Mashed potatoes are a third pillar of holiday meals. Atop the glorious mounds of turkey, stuffing, and potatoes goes gravy. Gravy cascades down the mountains of food to rivers in the valleys below. It’s all very scenic.

It’s a skill to maximize the gravy on each forkful without spilling on your shirt. I have not always succeeded at that. Occasionally shirts have been sacrificed to the cause.

Even on these most festive of days, the cooks must give a nod to healthy eating, Token vegetables make appearances. Even these have to be dressed up for the day.

We always have sweet potatoes. Well, it’s more like butter and brown sugar with sweet potatoes as sort of a binder. Green beans baked in a Campbell’s soup concoction are standard.

In the middle of the table, stands a glob of cranberry sauce shaped exactly like the can it slid out of. I don’t think anyone ever eats any of that. With it’s bright, jiggly fluorescent color, it’s more decoration than sustenance.

When all that consuming is finished, the people in charge clear off the bowls and platters. Truth be told, this has usually been women with these duties. As I said earlier, I have tried to be useful. Sometimes, that’s going to get beers. A man’s got to know his strengths.

After an interlude to let things settle, out comes pie. Or pies. At the recent Thanksgiving at daughter Anna’s, there was pumpkin, apple cream, and key lime. I had to have some of each. You don’t want to offend whoever made those. As much as one tries to cut a “third” of a piece of pie, it really is close to a whole piece.

Then comes an interlude in the eating. Depending on what stage in life you are, you might chase the kids around for a while. If you are older, you might doze off in a chair.

Then, a little while later, someone brings out a giant platter of cookies. As my mom used to say, you need those “about as much as you need a hole in your head.” My mom could be quite descriptive.

Anyway, you sure can’t turn those down.

There, a thousand words about food. I’m famished just thinking about it. I wonder if those cookies are still in the cupboard.

— Randy Krzmarzick farms on the home place west of Sleepy Eye, where he lives with his wife, Pam.