You too can be set up for the kind of failure that builds character.

Thanksgiving is, as far as I can tell, a commemorative feast built on the American impulse to confidently do too much and go too far. Also, carbohydrates.

This is the holiday of American Overreach, and if you are hosting, you’ll need to be prepared.

Hosting is not for the faint of heart. Or faint of stomach.

So, if you are like me, a person whose baseline is “Faint of Everything,” here is an extremely helpful and entirely reliable guide to hosting.

1. BEGIN WITH A PLAN.

Start weeks before Thanksgiving (or the morning of, you sexy daredevil) by writing a list with times and tasks. Something like:

• 7:45 a.m.: Preheat oven
• 7:46 a.m.: Find salad spinner and measuring cups.
• 7:49 a.m.: Clean entire house (get family to help).

Heck, write two lists, because all you are doing now is lying to yourself. Your oven will politely opt out, and your family will help by saying “just tell me what you need me to do,” as if tumbleweeds aren’t currently swooshing across the living room.

You must lie to yourself more effectively. Color-code your list. Add exclamation points for motivation. Put on your apron with foolhardy optimism.

Then watch in real time as your plan disintegrates.

Still, this color-coded, exclamation-point-riddled, absurdly unrealistic plan is essential because its collapse will teach you about the limits of narrative control.

Speaking of limits, this is a good time to mention the turkey. In short, you will spend the day being held hostage by a Butterball.

A quick primer on turkeys: The turkey is a large, ungainly bird that in life was known for (1) its ability to freak out in any direction and (2) its ability to treat flying as an opportunity to fail. This is why Americans choose them for feasts: we like an underdog, especially when the opponent is gravity.

The bird should be roughly the size of an ottoman. Experts claim it needs three to five days to thaw, which is a lie. Even in death, turkeys have excellent survival instincts and will, if given a chance, remain frozen in the center until the heat death of the universe.

Which is to say, if you haven’t started defrosting your turkey by Thanksgiving morning, you are omg-someone-check-if-the-grocery-store-is-open-today screwed.

At this point, it is wisest to delegate all turkey-related tasks to someone more responsible than you.

2. MAKE AN IMPOSSIBLE AMOUNT OF FOOD.

The turkey is delegated. Enjoy that moment of liberation, for in accordance with Thanksgiving Law, you must cook enough other dishes to provision a wagon train. Think appetizers, side dishes, side-side dishes, and multiple potato varieties (mashed, sweet, roasted, and whatever the hell happened in that fourth pan).

Make desserts. Plural. Twelve is my usual number. I’m not entirely sure why I do this; no one has ever said, “We just consumed 6,000 calories. You know what we need? Twelve different sweet things.”

Butter is your verb of the day. Butter the turkey. Butter under the skin. Butter the cavity. Butter the pans. Butter the potatoes. Butter the rolls. Butter the twelve desserts. Butter the tumbleweeds. Butter yourself. It’s a holiday.

3. GREET YOUR GUESTS LIKE THIS HAS BEEN GOING WELL.

Your guests are lovely. They will arrive smiling, carrying something delicious and structurally sound. They will ask how they can help. They will pretend not to notice you frantically rearranging furniture. They don’t need to know you’re trying to stack the side table over the living room tumbleweeds.

Even if they don’t like you, trust that they’re at least committed to the bit.

4. EXPECT SOMETHING WILL GO WRONG. POSSIBLY SEVERAL SOMETHINGS.

Things will be great, then you will burn something, forget something, drop something, and your apron will catch on a drawer pull and take you down like you’re the dramatic midpoint of a Ken Burns documentary. At the same time, at least one dish will appear to be boiling despite containing no liquid whatsoever.

You will sweat gravy.

It is now time to commence the traditional Host’s Panic: Excuse yourself to breathe dramatically in the bathroom. Tell your guests you are checking on the gravy. Your guests may wonder if (and why) you have gravy in the bathroom, or if you merely employed a horrible euphemism.

5. WATCH IT ALL COME TOGETHER ANYWAY.

And then, because this is how stories work, the whole mess settles. People talk and laugh and eat because they are polite and kind and hungry, and also because you put out enough food to feed a European principality.

The whole day is somehow almost insultingly lovely. You have improbably created ridiculous abundance in this luminous act of gathering.

And you’ll look around and think, “Oh. This is nice. I should do this again next year.”

For you, a blessing:

May your turkey behave, your desserts multiply beyond reason, your plans unravel gracefully, your potatoes be fluffy, your baster stay findable, and your gratitude arrive when you need it. May you be surrounded by people who put up with your nonsense, and may someone else do the dishes.

Happy Thanksgiving. And remember: too much is just enough.