The turkey weighed a hefty 24 pounds. Mom beamed as she balanced the golden bird half out of the oven and squeezed fatty broth all over the skin. The juice licked its way down all sides, between the extra crisp thighs, until the stuffing slurped up as much as possible. Mom had to use two hands to push back into the oven the turkey, which she had stuffed and started cooking before dawn. 

For the majority of my life, my mom hosted Thanksgiving dinner. She began preparing the meal days in advance, starting with two pumpkin pies and homemade crusts that she inevitably cursed out when trying to delicately and slowly shift the paper-thin dough onto the pie dishes. I relished dipping my finger into the filling and licking it off just before baking time. But the smell of freshly toasted breadcrumbs truly signaled that I had to wait only two more days until savoring my grandmother’s stuffing. 

I had been too young back then to inquire about the woman she was beyond “Grandma.”

We lost my maternal grandma, Theresa LaFerrera, from heart complications when I was just 14 years old. The grandmother whom I watched rub perfume between her wrists, dab under her ears, and then share a splash and a wink with me so I could mimic her. The grandmother whom I sat patiently beside as she taught me how to sew on buttons and mend seams. The grandmother who called me the night before she died to tell me, emphatically, that she loved me. That she was proud of me. 

I had been too young back then to inquire about the woman she was beyond “Grandma.” I also was not yet old enough to appreciate her ability to turn the cheapest, simplest ingredients into mouth-watering masterpieces—a gift she honed during the Great Depression. Imagining the history behind her recipe only makes me miss her more. 

But grandma still visited us every Thanksgiving as we shared her stuffing, our mouths drooling as we gobbled up the sweet and savory combination of sausage and raisins, perfectly complemented with celery, onion, rich seasoning, pinoli nuts (an enhancement introduced by Grandma Canning), and those homemade breadcrumbs that my mom, and eventually I too, prepared in advance.

In my late teens and 20s, I joined my mother at the kitchen counter. When the evening hush settled throughout the house, she and I sat together, using scissors to snip the plain white bread first into strips, then cubes. Every now and then, my mom raked her arthritic fingers through the cubes, spreading them across the baking sheets. 

We were just two women, joining the historical collage of all other women gathered around the table, passing down experiences and dollops of wisdom while preparing a feast of gratitude. 

Quietly, she would reminisce about her childhood, her voice saturated with fond memories of a different lifetime. And I would know her a little more, a little better. With so much food to cook, there was no room for argument or judgement at the table. The holiday magic cloaked us from hard feelings. Our differences fell away.  We were just two women, joining the historical collage of all other women gathered around the table, passing down experiences and dollops of wisdom while preparing a feast of gratitude. 

The next best part of Thanksgiving is sharing all that food. 

After I relinquished my childhood-adoration of Santa Claus, Thanksgiving became my favorite holiday. Although Christmas filled my home with opulence—specifically, a mesmerizing winter wonderland that included more than 20 trees of various heights, four different themed villages, animatronics, and delicate collectables only for show, never for play—Thanksgiving focused entirely on family. 

While my brother and I watched the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, I always eagerly awaited the arrival of my mom’s sister and her two children. Growing up, we four cousins shared every birthday, every Easter and Thanksgiving, many summer vacations, etc. We missed the fifth member of our group, who, along with my mom’s brother and his wife, relocated several states away. 

And as we aged out of attending every birthday party and shared vacations, Thanksgiving became more endearing—especially Thanksgiving 2009, which miraculously brought us all together again.

Two tables filled the dining and living rooms, each decorated with hints of fall foliage between the carved turkey, the massive mound of stuffing, the creamiest mashed potatoes, candied yams dotted with melted marshmallows, canned cranberry jelly sliced into jiggly slabs, and more. I assume we had some sort of vegetable dish too, but all the carbs chanted my name. 

The aunties and uncles and new family friends occupied the formal dining room. In the living room, the kids’ table once again sat all five cousins—as well as spouses and significant others. 

For a few hours, time slowed down. We prayed for grandma and grandpa. We toasted to our futures. We fought over the last spoonfuls of stuffing. We ate until the buttons on our pants protruded into the side of the table. We laughed until the tryptophan made us drowsy, but even still we shrugged it off and ran downstairs to start our ownRock Band jam session. The girls and boys started a battle of the bands. The sisters, a few years away from becoming grandmas themselves, sang a duet. And then we tore open our Secret Santa gifts. I don’t recall the few zany choices, only the resulting laughter that shook all our bellies like bowls full of jelly.

When I celebrated Thanksgiving 2011 with my then-fiancé’s family, I struggled with the absence of my traditions.

I’ve preserved that epic Thanksgiving deep into my heart, especially as I have come to realize that family togetherness ebbs and flows. That particular holiday marked not only the last time we were all together again but also the last Thanksgiving I’d ever have in my childhood home. The following year, my parents sold that house and retired to Florida. When we shared the news with our extended family, my cousin’s first response was “but where will we celebrate Thanksgiving?” 

We all had to forge new traditions. I didn’t adjust easily. When I celebrated Thanksgiving 2011 with my then-fiancé’s family, I struggled with the absence of my traditions. My future in-laws preferred chicken, Stove Top Stuffing, and the Philadelphia parade. While they joked about dry and tasteless poultry, I mourned the loss of grandma’s stuffing and mom’s juicy turkey. The differences felt too sudden, as if a chasm had swallowed everything in which I had previously found comfort.

But as much as I missed pieces of my past, I also slowly embraced all the new joy coming into my life. Moving to Maryland enabled me to find the love of my life. My father-in-law prepares a delicious chicken, several batches of homemade cookies, and at least three pies bursting at the seems. My sister-in-law makes the most spectacular gouda sweet potatoes, and my mother-in-law now turns on the Macy’s parade first thing in the morning—just for me. And three years later, while sitting on their sofa, my husband and I announced our first pregnancy. 

Fast forward 10 years, and I am now a wife and mother myself. I am utterly grateful how much my in-laws shower my children with unconditional love. My boys scream with joy as we arrive at Nana and Pop-pop’s house.

We can always find ways to evolve the traditions we hold dear, even as we and our circumstances change.

As my children create their own precious holiday memories, I increasingly appreciate how joyfully my father-in-law feeds our family—and that this momma doesn’t have to lift a finger for at least one holiday. What a gift.

We can always find ways to evolve the traditions we hold dear, even as we and our circumstances change. Thanks to FaceTime, I am still able to include my family during the holidays (and any day in between). 

As for my grandma, she still visits me. I can clearly hear her telling me how much she loves me every time I make her glorious sausage stuffing at Christmas time.

To my readers: 

What are the cornerstone traditions of your Thanksgiving? How do you keep your traditions alive?