It's been roasted turkey, fluffy mashed potatoes, and Glass Onions for me every Thanksgiving since 1987. I've spent the morning hours of the last Thursday of every November since I was 12, in my bedroom, with the Beatles' 1968 White Album playing on my stereo. No snow storms, meddling houseguests, or holiday traveling inconveniences have interrupted my 23 year ritual. The album and the holiday have merged so strongly in my subconscious that it's now odd for me not to taste cranberry sauce or brown gravy when I hear I'm So Tired or Sexy Sadie.
Whether it was borrowed from the library, bought at the local record shop with paper route money, obtained in a swap with a classmate, or given to me for my birthday; the initial list
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