I have a story about Thanksgiving at the Big House: Grampa wanted everyone to know that everything on this table had been raised at the farm (we had three lovely baked chickens instead of a turkey). The squash, the potatoes, the milk and cream, of course, and the apples and pumpkins for the pies, etc. — Except my little brother made a comment about the salt, pepper and coffee; nobody paid him any attention. We did all our own baking from the flour, which came in huge sacks and made us sneeze when it was poured into the flour bin. The flour bin was important because it was where we all sat to watch the goings-on in the kitchen; my father would sit there and argue with Grandma about evolution until she was wild, waving her spoon and screaming, “We are NOT descended from monkeys!”