This past weekend I was in Denver for Thanksgiving with my dad, my stepmom, and her side of the family. It was a lovely visit to Boulder, a quick flight from San Francisco, but with enough of a weather shift to finally feel like winter. On our last morning, we woke up to a light dusting of snow.
I learned that my stepmom’s Colorado family runs Thanksgiving like clockwork: the same guests, the same dishes prepared by the same people, and always at my great aunt and great uncle’s home. They were gracious about letting our crew – which consisted of my immediate family, my grandma, and my fiancée – merge this year, even though I am sure the sudden influx of newcomers nudged their anxiety and disrupted the usual rhythm.
Being dropped into such a predictable tradition made me realize how untraditional Thanksgiving has always been for me. With divorced parents and then years spent on the opposite coast for college, I have ended up at more Thanksgiving tables than I can count.
I remember a covid year when I rented a car and drove alone to Los Angeles to spend the holiday with my aunt, uncle, and cousins, then detoured through Ojai on my way home. I remember multiple years in San Diego with my best friend’s family and her aunt’s pierogies. Letting go of the pressure to have one “traditional” Thanksgiving has opened the door to many fun, unexpected memories with the people I love, and I am grateful to have been welcomed into so many warm, generous homes along the way.
