Bridget approaches the grocery store with confidence, her nine-month old daughter on one hip and her two-year old son clutching her free hand. The words her mother spoke to her on the telephone last week are still fresh in her mind, “You Make The Deviled Eggs this year sweetie. I’ve got plenty on my plate and Lord knows, at 27, if you can’t handle the deviled eggs, we’ve got worse things to worry about.”

Never before has Joyce, the matriarch of the huge family let anyone else make the deviled eggs for Thanksgiving. She finally accepts that I’m a responsible adult, Bridget thinks to herself as she gets the kids settled into the shopping cart. Earlier she Googled deviled egg recipes searching the list of ingredients for those that sound like they might closely match the famed deviled eggs her mom and grandma before her have fixed for eons. The recipe is not written down anywhere. Bridget silently whishes she had paid closer attention in the kitchen all those years.

With her shopping list pulled up on the Workflowy app on her iPhone, Bridget navigates the aisles of the store swiftly, gathering all the right ingredients, and is back home by nap time when she puts the kids down and dons her grandmother’s vintage apron that hangs on the hook inside the pantry. In no time, the eggs are boiling. Everything goes off without a hitch and she proudly places the finished eggs on the special tray, garnishing the center with olives and pickles. No one is going to be able to tell that Mom didn’t make these eggs.

The next morning, Thanksgiving Day, Bridget and Kyle get the kids dressed in their new clothes, and they all head to Grandma’s house where Bridget’s five sisters and brothers, plus their spouses and 12 children will all gather for the much anticipated annual noon meal. Bridget knows each family will bring a side dish, and is so excited for everyone to try her eggs that she is beside herself with joy. The ear-to-ear smile plastered to her bright face.

They are not the first to arrive, and when they let themselves in through the front door and make their way to the kitchen, past the hustle and bustle of kisses and hugs to everyone, and a smattering of small children running around the house, squealing with the excitement of the holidays, Bridget’s smile turns upside down when she sees a huge tray of deviled eggs in the center of the kitchen island. Joyce sees Bridget’s forlorn expression, walks over and whispers in her ear, “Just in case yours didn’t come out quite right, sweetie.”