There will be ghosts at Thanksgiving this year.
Actually, there are ghosts every year. That’s what holidays are — a measure of time, a comparison to the past, a look around at who has arrived, who has grown, who is missing.
I have always known that, but this year I am steeped in the knowing. Because this year, for the first time, WE are the grown-ups. My husband and I, our siblings and cousins, we will be the oldest ones at the table, the presenters of the feast, the tellers of the stories, the keepers of tradition. Thanksgiving is no longer something being passed down to us, but rather something for us to pass on to our children.
I should start by admitting that there isn’t much to pass down from my side of the family. I’m the daughter and granddaughter of two takeout queens, and until I met Bruce, my Thanksgivings were spent in restaurants or eating reheated offerings from the deli’s holiday catering menu.
His side, on the other hand, lived for this holiday. I’ve only heard stories of the grand galas at his great aunt’s, where everyone cooked for weeks and ate for days. By the time I joined in, the location had moved to my in-laws’ sprawling home, where sprawl we did. READ MORE