[The audio transcript is provided below]
Thanksgiving begins long before the turkey hits the table. It starts in the hum of the kitchen, the scent of herbs wafting through the air, and the quiet rhythm of gratitude stirring in our hearts. It’s a moment to step outside the rush of life, to pause, and let the weight of thankfulness settle deep in our chest. While the food is what draws us together, the real magic lies in the connection—the people who sit beside us, the stories exchanged over steaming plates, and the simple joy of belonging to something bigger than ourselves.
I’ve always loved this holiday. Not because it’s the official start of the holiday season, or because I love cooking—which I do—but because of what it symbolizes: abundance. Not just in the green bean casserole or the buttered rolls, but in the feeling of enough. Enough love. Enough laughter. Enough time to savor it all.
For me, this holiday has always been about finding that balance between the past and the present. It’s about the abundance of the present moment, and the legacy of those who came before us, whose sacrifices and resilience shape the world we live in. In this sense, gratitude becomes a bridge, connecting us to our history, to each other, and to the future we hope to create.
Some of my most cherished Thanksgivings were spent at my grandmother’s house. Her kitchen was a kingdom of comfort, where she reigned with unmatched grace, preparing dishes that felt like warm hugs. Love was baked into every dish. My brothers and I would pile our plates high, go back for seconds, thirds, even fourths. Grandma Ann didn’t just make meals; she created feasts. There was turkey, of course, but also mashed potatoes so smooth they could’ve been silk, and deviled eggs so perfect they seemed to vanish as soon as they hit the platter. And then there was her divinity—fluffy, cloud-like, impossibly sweet. To this day, I swear it tasted like childhood itself.
Years later, Thanksgiving found me far from Grandma’s house, in New York City, where I hosted my own holiday. In a cramped apartment kitchen, I roasted a turkey so enticing it caused even the vegetarians to waver. A few years after that, I spent the holiday at a farmhouse upstate with some of the city’s most brilliant minds—artists, architects, people who lived as vibrantly as they spoke. I was tasked with making the gravy, a simple but essential job, and I remember the quiet reverence in the room as we passed dishes around the table.
“Sharing food,” the writer Wendell Berry once said, “is the purest form of intimacy.” I think he’s right. Whether I’m dining by candlelight with new friends or laughing at old family jokes, I love how a meal can bring people together in ways that feel sacred, even fleetingly eternal.
This year, my Thanksgiving will be quieter. I’ve been brining a turkey for two days, and I’ll smoke it before sitting down to a table of simple, lovingly made side dishes. There will be no candlelit farmhouse this time, no bustling city apartment. Just a quaint, quiet evening, filled with gratitude for the abundance I’ve come to recognize in my own life: the work I love, the people who support me, the ability to pause and savor the moment. I still have to work on Thanksgiving, but I’ll be home in time for dinner.
And by Friday, it’ll be back to the grind—preparing for a pop-up market in Chattanooga the next day. But on Thursday evening, I’ll rest. I’ll let the impossible—what Audre Lorde called “a foot soldier for the status quo”—stay at bay. I’ll light a candle, serve myself a second helping of gratitude, and remind myself that abundance doesn’t have to be loud. Sometimes it’s quiet, quaint, and just enough.
As we carve out time to give thanks, I also like to carve out a moment for quiet reflection. What does abundance look like in your life?
The knowledge that you have enough, right here, right now?
The simple pleasure of sharing a meal, a story, or a moment of peace?
Or is it the quiet gift of time—time to share with loved ones, or perhaps to reconnect with yourself amidst a season that so often pulls us in every direction? For me, it’s all of that.
It’s the chance to sit down, take a breath, and remember that even in the busiest seasons, there is always something—however small—to be grateful for. Let’s honor that abundance, and the lands that sustain it, with gratitude, humility, and joy!
Happy Thanksgiving!
