Mine was when I was 18, my first year "on my own." I decided to cook a turkey roast with potatoes, green beans, stuffing and pie. I lived in a tiny camp trailer behind my, then, fiance's parents' house. I didn't know anything about propane bottles and how long they would (or, in this case, wouldn't) last. The turkey roast was only about half done when the little oven started cooling off. I kept turning the heat up, but to no avail.
My fiance, David, came in about 45 minutes later to ask when dinner would be ready, only to find me sobbing at the table staring at the oven. After he reassured me he wasn't angry about dinner and calmed me down, he checked the oven, then went outside. He came back in giggling, which only set me off again. Again, he calmed me down and explained the empty five-gallon propane tank. He disconnected it and found a place to refill it.
Dinner that first year was two hours late, but with good memories just the same.
How did the first Thanksgiving you were in charge of go?