My mother-in-law always contributes a bowl of trail mix to the coffee-table appetizers; my husband always insists on canned, jellied cranberry sauce. And while the gravy is still hot in its china boat, certain relatives testily revisit long-held and contrasting thoughts on who killed JFK.

Then there is the person on the edge of her seat plotting the confiscation of the turkey carcass.

That would be me.

Stuffing, sweet potatoes with marshmallows, country ham or Uncle Ed's mincemeat pie mark the holiday for legions of Americans.

For soup lovers, though, a turkey's skeleton is Thanksgiving's coveted door prize.

This has something to do with the fact that, even though turkey is available year-round, most people don't roast whole birds until the winter holidays.

Making soup from the bones extends the feelings of celebration and goodwill in many ways: In the week or month ahead, depending upon when you choose to deal with the carcass, the house is perfumed as the bones roast and the broth simmers. (This is the time to have an open house if you are looking to sell your home.)

The soupmaker gets to revel in the virtuous feeling that comes from making something from what might have been thrown away, something definitely better-tasting and nutritious than the canned stuff.

And when you add seasonal ingredients such as sage, winter squash and wild rice, along with a bit of leftover turkey (see accompanying recipes), you can produce a meal that many of us consider more tantalizing than the actual Thanksgiving feast.

But maybe even more important is that soup, which certainly is perfect for a crowd, is also the consummate solitary self-indulgence.

Making and devouring it alone can be meditative and soothing, a fitting follow-up to the preparation and consumption of a meal composed of many elements - and a group of dear but clattering, chattering relatives.

Turkey soup after Thanksgiving dinner is better than a spa treatment, and I have mastered the capture of its essential component: the bird's jarringly messy skeleton. If you, too, covet the carcass, you will profit from my experience.

Luckily, many people view these bones as icky - a bother, something that signals labor, or a burden for those who have traveled to the dinner from afar.

Some even consider a desire for those bones as a scary, slippery slope down to Martha Stewart-dom.

It is in the soup lover's best interest to cultivate such viewpoints among others.

These very same skeptics will want the carcass stripped of its shards so that they may have a mini-feast the next day. And the children may want to abscond with the wishbone, technically called the furcula, which lies between all birds' necks and breasts.

Feign generosity and allow that. But be on your toes to hoard some of the meat to use with the precious bones.

Then move on to gaining possession of the carcass in one of three ways: (1) Insist on cleaning up after dinner; (2) Provide disinformation; or (3) Seize control of the conversation.

Offering to do the dishes is, obviously, not the most pleasant option. But if you can manage to convince others that you really, really want to do it alone, you and your turkey carcass are home free. It can be disguised - in foil and a wig, perhaps - and refrigerated behind a collection of mustards for several days. It may also be frozen for several months.