For my readers outside the U.S., Thanksgiving is perhaps the most American of holidays—a late-November Thursday dedicated to turkey, pumpkin pie, cranberry sauce, sweet potatoes, and enough starches to astonish even Babar the Elephant (who once puzzled over why Americans serve four different potato dishes at the same meal).
The classic image is Norman Rockwell’s Freedom From Want: smiling family, giant turkey, everything glowing. Real life, of course, is messier. When I was young, Thanksgivings were spent at my parents’ modest home in Pittsburgh, where my mother would work for days preparing a feast the size of a small aircraft carrier. Dinner always began with a prayer and a slow circle of “what we’re thankful for,” which lasted long enough for the turkey to cool and the mashed potatoes to congeal.
As the years passed and my parents were gone, I took on hosting duties myself. In Palm Springs, I’d roast the turkey and ask friends to bring their favorite sides. The faces changed, the food varied, but the impulse stayed the same: gather, eat, give thanks.
Thanksgiving has evolved into a national ritual of gratitude wrapped inside a weekend of travel chaos and, perhaps inevitably, a shopping day which now stretches from Thursday night to “Cyber Monday” and beyond. Only in America could a moment of reflection be followed so quickly by a stampede for televisions and air fryers.
This year I’ll be heading to my brother’s farm in Ohio. And despite the airports and the weather and the lines, I look forward to that brief moment when everyone sits down, breathes, and remembers why we’re here at all.
Because at its heart, Thanksgiving is a reminder—simple and powerful. We only get one go-round, and even in complicated times, we have so much to be grateful for.