So, obviously the first thing about Thanksgiving is food. I didn’t say the most important thing, I said the first thing. We’ll get to the important things tomorrow, but let’s be honest, if you picked a hundred decent Americans out and asked them all what Thanksgiving is about, the first thing would probably not be how grateful they were for all their blessings. It would be the food.

And there’s nothing wrong with that. The first thing you think doesn’t have to be the most important, as long as the most important isn’t far behind.

If you ask the average guy what he first thought the night he met his future wife, the answer would probably not be, “I imagined how an ideal wife, a woman of valor, would have a soul that meshed with mine for all eternity and created new life to carry on the search for truth and unity.” In fact, any man who DOES think that first needs to be drugged and sequestered. It’s okay to think that (or parts of it, or a variation of it) second, or years down the road, but that first night ought to be along the lines of, “Now there’s a girl who knows how to wear painters’ pants and Topsiders. I wonder if she’ll fall for my obvious and ham-fisted baloney long enough for me to get a few beers into her?”

Anyway, as you know, we Americans eat pretty well all year long, if by “pretty well” you mean like Henry VIII. There are, God knows, hungry people all over the country and the world, but, let’s face it, most of us, all year long, are not desperately looking for food; we’re desperately trying to find ways to stop shoveling platters of it down our throats.

Too much food all year long makes us feel guilty, though. In a sense it’s not even fun, because we know the whole way along, “I really don’t need more chili on those fries, or that second piece of cheesecake.”

Ah, but on Thanksgiving there’s no guilt. We know going in, “Today I’m going to cut loose and eat whatever I want, all day long if I want, and it’s all okay, because everyone else in the whole country is doing the same thing.”

The actual turkey isn’t even the centerpiece of the day, if you think about it. The real fun of the day is the chips and dips and pickled this and fried that, and all the terrific things that come before, during, around and after the turkey. It’s the one really perfectly guilt-free day of early drinking, and, hell, if there’s one habit that’s positively turned into a ritual, it’s watching football on TV.

Even if you don’t particularly care for football, NOT watching a game is almost un-American. If you run into someone on Thursday who’s upstairs reading a magazine while downstairs someone is driving up the middle for three, walk over to that person, sit down, smile and nod, and then lean over and whisper, “Is this how your family spent Thanksgiving where you grew up… COMRADE?!!”

I’m kidding (kind of), and one of the things we have planned is watching Abbott and Costello’s movie, “Buck Privates,” or “Buck Privates Come Home.” My kids love them, and we all howl, and my nephew, though a young vagabond and ex-marine, is a huge old movie fan, and could hold his own with Robert Osborne. (I know old movies aren’t on everyone’s list in life, but if you love to laugh, please take my advice and try those two.)

But that food. Oooh. And the best? The 11:00, everyone gone, all the counters wiped, everything put away, pajamas and robe and slippers, leaning into the fridge, tin foil off, one more forkful of a homemade pecan pie. (I think it’s that lean in with the light spilling out into the dark kitchen that does it.)

My wife is already buying and preparing and experimenting. She got the turkey today, and her sister always makes this incredible peppers and garlic and oil appetizer-thing that’s so crazy good on little pieces of Italian bread — Lord. As soon as she puts that stuff on the counter I go to work on it, and anyone who reaches in for some runs the risk of getting the sideways growl of a mastiff from me.

My wife just walked by, seriously, and said, “Okay, I got the cranberry sauce and the brine done. Plus, there’s a new thing I read about where you cook it the night before and leave it uncovered in the fridge overnight so it air dries.” I think that’s what she said, anyway, but as she walked away she said, “Plus, this year I’m not going to undercook it.”

All good news. I’ll handle the bar duties. And this year I’m not leaving anyone’s glass undercooked; although I never do.

REMEMBER: IF YOU WALKED OUT OF BED TODAY AND HAD TOO MANY POTATO CHIPS AND BREAD IN GARLIC, AND CHOPPED LIVER AND PEPPERS IN OIL, AND WERE STUFFED LIKE A KISHKA LONG BEFORE THE TURKEY WAS EVEN SLICED… FOLKS, IT’S THANKSGIVING IN AMERICA, AND THE HELL WITH ANYONE WHO DOESN’T LIKE IT.