Giving Thanks

First freeze—an orange leaf in the cats’ outdoor water bowl.

Thanksgiving is coming up soon, and for the first time, I will be hosting Thanksgiving dinner at my place. This feels like some sort of rite of passage. My mom is already worried that I’ll forget to order the turkey. I’m not worried, but maybe that’s because I don’t know what I’m getting myself into. Ten adults and two kids doesn’t sound like a lot. We’ll have turkey, stuffing, roasted squash, glazed carrots, Brussells sprouts, mashed potatoes, creamed onions, cranberry sauce, and of course, pies—apple, pecan, and pumpkin. My brother and his wife are contributing a few of the dishes I mentioned, and my mom is baking the apple pie. How hard can it be? Especially since Nick and I will be doing it together, and he is a great cook.


My mom told me that the other day she went to a casual dinner party at the home of an old friend, and she brought store-bought meatballs. The way she told the story, it seemed like she felt totally liberated yet almost guilty about bringing something she didn’t make in her own kitchen, as if she was cheating or shirking her duties. But when she got to the party, she wasn’t the only one to bring something pre-made, and she and her friends had a laugh about how much easier it is “these days” not to have to make everything yourself.

I feel lucky that as a grown woman I have never felt obligated to “make something” myself rather than just picking it up at a store or bakery, as I guess my mom and her peers may have felt as mothers from a different generation. It’s strange to think those days weren’t so long ago. When I make cupcakes or a lasagna, it feels like a novelty, a cool thing to do on a Sunday afternoon. I wonder if that will change when I have children, or if we’ve come a long enough way that I’ll continue to be able to choose when I bake for pleasure, and to opt out and run to Whole Foods when it feels like a chore.