Last Tuesday, Election Day, I worked at a poll site, as I did last year and may do again next year. It’s a long, grueling day—17-plus hours under school gym lights, staring at the same basketball trapped up in the rafters and searching up people’s election districts over and over again on a glitchy, Board of Elections-issued tablet. It was freezing cold in the site where I worked, but the energy and the assembled crew were warm, I like to think a microcosm of New York City. Each person takes their job with the utmost seriousness, to the point that we were on site until nearly 11PM, making sure every step of the process, every safeguard on top of safeguard, was completed perfectly. During the lulls in the day you always hear the best life stories, and that’s what brings me back.

And there were DOGS, streams of them trooping through in their little sweaters and vests and booties, accompanying their owners into the privacy booths where they (the owners) filled in their chosen bubbles. Never mind that there was a sign posted at the entrance, very clearly stating “no dogs allowed” with an unmistakable diagram to match. All of us workers, it turned out, were softies for dogs—plus we’re technically not supposed to ask the voter whether their dog is a support animal or not, so better just to assume they are.

Around midday, a couple of BOE inspectors wearing badges parked themselves near the entrance, where I was stationed as an information clerk. Soon after that I noticed a lady making her way down the entry corridor with her tiny dog. She glanced at the “no dogs” sign taped to the wall and then gave us the saddest look you’ve ever seen. We had a dilemma: if we waved her through, we risked revealing to the inspectors the fact that we’d been casually letting animals in all day—basically grand marshaling a pooch parade through the most somber of civic processes. The greeter by the door gave her head a firm shake.

“Then I just won’t vote, I guess,” the dog owner said, her voice quavering. Swiftly, the Spanish translator, a lovely woman originally from Puerto Rico, was on her feet and hurrying toward the would-be voter. I couldn’t see what was happening with the dog (who remained just out of the inspectors’ view the entire time), but it disappeared, its owner went in to vote, and the translator was back at her station before she was missed.

“What happened?” I asked later. She told me how she assured the woman of the dog’s safety and then brought it outside, where she negotiated with a greeter posted at the entrance to keep the dog warm and secure until the lady finished voting. There was never any question—this lady was registered, and it was our job to make sure she got her vote. My colleague empathized with how people in our city have come to rely on their dogs during covid, when the animal might have been their only companion or only ticket out of the house during the depths of lockdown. Licensed or not, every dog is a support dog.

“Did she need to be so dramatic, though?” My colleague wondered, referring to the owner’s ultimatum. “She could have just asked.”

The takeaway from the tale is this: Help when you can. And always know when to ask for help. I remind my kids of this constantly—to reach out or self-advocate early, before they reach total meltdown—but I’m not always so great at remembering this, myself.

So how does this remotely relate to food? The holidays are coming up, and many of us have not entertained in a while, at least not for large groups. The thought of pulling off an entire feast is overwhelming, if not terrifying. Ask for help. No need to be a hero or a martyr. Share the load. Most people love bringing a favorite dish, or showing off their wine knowledge, and there are others who excel at doing dishes or who relish the chance to escape the house for an ice run…or a dog walk. Let them help.

If you have cooking questions, there are places you can turn.

New York Times Cooking has a dedicated email, cookingcare@nytimes.com where you can send off your troubleshooting or technical questions. I love that this hearkens back to the days when you could dial up your local food editor mid-recipe with an SOS.

Food 52 has an online Hotline whose searchable topics might already contain your answer, no matter how obscure. If not, you can send yours in.

Turkey emergency? There’s a USDA Meat and Poultry Hotline at 1-888-674-6854. I haven’t tried it, but presumably you can call and ask whether, say, it’s safe to eat that turkey whose bagged giblets your forgot to remove from the cavity before roasting (technically that’s a no, but I confess I’ve done it and lived to tell)…

Feel free to drop a question in the comments below or email me at claibornemilde@gmail.com . I’ve been cooking a long time, sometimes professionally, and I’ve picked up a trick or two. There are a few recipes on here that are perfect for Thanksgiving, too.

Ways to help:

Is there a community fridge in your neighborhood? Stock it with some goodies. Kids love getting in on this action. In the greater NYC area this cool map points you to your closest free fridge.

Mutual aids are a great way to get and give help in your immediate community. We’ve been shopping for our local mutual aid throughout the pandemic.

Volunteer at a soup kitchen if you’re alone or not celebrating Thanksgiving.

Lend a hand making deliveries with a local food bank.

Check in on an elderly neighbor!

Finally, here’s a recipe for twice baked potatoes, a family classic my kids and my mom always make together. We’ll be bringing a huge round of these over to my lovely sister- and brother-in-law’s house, because they’re graciously hosting Thanksgiving this year.