The Monday before Thanksgiving, the work in the Kleinman-Stolzenberg household usually begins.

But, not this year.

I have a Thanksgiving folder with all our favorite family recipes: the turkey, the sage sausage stuffing, sweet potatoes, Boursin mashed potatoes, roasted Brussels Sprouts, pecan pie, pumpkin pie, silky butternut squash soup. This is what we made every year for up to 18 knuckleheads since the mid-90s.

But not this year.

Usually on Monday, I’d go down to the basement and bring up the folding chairs. But not this year.

Then we’d tussle about how much charcuterie to buy, for pre-dinner snacks. “We don’t need that much!” I’d say. “Stop being so cheap!” she’d say. “It’s not cheap — it’s wasteful!” I’d counter. She’d always win, and we had leftover triple creme and manchego for days.

But not this year.

On Tuesdays before the Turkey, we’d go shopping and panic when the store was out of control, brimming with clueless consumers arguing about the difference between a yam and a sweet potato, or consulting on cooking times, turkey sizes, and other holiday minutiae we had down cold.

But not this year.

The night before, we’d get to work on the pies and sides. But not this year.

The day-of, Ronni would do the table and it was always so festive. We used our special reddish tablecloth with a cool autumny centerpiece. But not this year.

Invariably, someone (usually my parents, or her mother, or sometimes BOTH), would come hours early. Ding-dong! We’d answer the doorbell, still vacuuming, in our sweatpants. Why? Who the eff knows? It was part of the ritual.

But not this year.

No, this year, we are going back to Brooklyn, just the two of us, to have a quiet session with Dan and Mo. We’ll bring lots of wine and a pie. Dee and Mo are doing all the rest. They are great hosts and master chefs. The food is going to be top shelf; they always go all-out.

Maybe this is the year the Thanksgiving baton is passed? No one is sure of anything anymore. It’s one day at a time, one foot in front of the other, like Phillippe Petite between the two World Trade Center towers. Whatever you do, don’t look down.

Not this year.

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