For those who enjoy the art of hospitality at home, there’s always the illusion of a beautifully orchestrated home-cooked meal, of which Thanksgiving is the crown jewel. I grew up celebrating Thanksgiving as an evening meal, as did my husband, so in our house, the celebration begins at 6 p.m. with champagne and appetizers, followed around 7 with dinner in the dining room.

The table is set days in advance with monogrammed linens left in my care after my daughters’ weddings and heirloom china given to me more than 40 years ago by my mother-in-law. Water and wine glasses are out too. The table is done, the bar is ready. The meal, not so much.

I admire the cinematic fantasy of a Nancy Meyers kitchen where adults chop and stir with effortless charm while puppies and children tumble underfoot. But my own life is not quite so choreographed.

To be completely honest, I love my kitchen, and I love cooking by myself.  Solo. Alone. My kitchen is my sacred space. Let me restate that: my kitchen is my sacred space. I don’t want help prepping. I like being alone while I chop. I like being alone while I stir. 

Before you judge, let me finish: I’m happy for you to be here. Sit by the fire, read, scroll, watch a movie, play with the kids, drink coffee (or whatever you put in the mug). Just leave me alone so I can cook, in peace.

Our house is old, and like many homes of its generation, the kitchen (updates aside) is small with limited counter space. But honestly, it’s not just the size. It’s really about my limitations,mainly, my inability to share in these tasks. Call me a control freak. I can take it. It’s not the first time.

I write my menu and prep list with the discipline of a general, doing ahead everything that can be done so the final hours are reserved for the essentials such as carving, tossing and plating. Thanksgiving at Chez Hoover is not a potluck parade or an overstuffed buffet. It is curated and composed. No surprise casseroles, no experimental matcha-pistachio inventions, and certainly not three competing potato dishes, one of which is covered in store-bought marshmallows.

Many years ago, we lived in another house on this same street. We gutted the kitchen and expanded the space. The project finished just before Thanksgiving, and that year we hosted about 35 people, most of them family. My father-in-law, upon seeing the new kitchen, said to me, “The nicer the kitchen, the less it’s used.” He wasn’t wrong. That weekend, he left a burn mark on the wood countertop while making himself, of all things,a grilled cheese.

There should be no such thing as a perfect room anyway. I’m a bit of a Darwinist when it comes to living spaces. I'm ok with rooms that look and feel lived in, burned countertops and all. Over the years, no matter the house, the kitchen has always been the most enjoyed room. I understand its appeal, truly.

While I may not invite extra hands into the kitchen for Thanksgiving prep, everyone is welcome for a mid-afternoon bite. Nothing calms the holiday frenzy better. This year, by unanimous request, it will be my lentil, barley, and farro soup in its creamy parmesan broth, the consistency of congee.

Of course, I’ll join anyone who wanders in for a bowl. I’ll even let you use the ladle yourself. I’m not crazy. The pre-Thanksgiving kitchen may be my sanctum, but hospitality shouldn't be about one room because true hospitality has no boundaries.