My family has always celebrated Thanksgiving on the Sunday before the actual holiday. This year, I hosted it at my house, and I moved it up a week so that Olivia and Travis could be with us.

As I crumble the cornbread on Sunday morning, getting that first pan ready for the oven, I’m caught up in my thoughts of tradition and memories from childhood. It was always my job to crumble the cornbread and it feels like second nature as I do it again, all these years later. The crumbs feel so familiar between my fingers. 

I’ve spent a lot of time this week, working to get this dressing recipe just right, even setting off the smoke alarms on the first attempt. I’ve made my mom’s chicken and dressing a few times before and for some reason, a written recipe is nowhere to be found. My mom gave me instructions as best she could and I needed a little more structure to be able to pull off an edible pan. I searched high and low for recipes that seemed closest to hers and came up with a plan that was a combination of her notes and recipes I found online. My goal is first and foremost that this dressing is edible. Secondly, I hope it tastes like my mom’s always did. 

Besides dressing, one of the signature items that I always requested was my mom’s chocolate pie. I haven’t made one of these from scratch in my adult life. I find the recipe and nothing feels familiar. This is probably because I was assigned the least important roles as a child. As I scoop the first spoons of cocoa into the bowl, it all comes rushing back to me. Not the recipe or instructions, of course. That would make my life too easy. I suppose it’s more like a familiar sight and smell, something recognizable among that smell of freshly opened Hershey’s cocoa. Honestly, I don’t think I’ve ever bought cocoa on my own before this. The only way I’ve used this ingredient is for that pie as a child. I stare in the bowl and think about how familiar and yet how distant it all is. I recognize it, just not enough to feel very confident in my pie-making skills.

It’s early and no one else is here yet so I have plenty of time to stay there in my thoughts. I think about the many years that have transpired since I last made a chocolate pie and of all the people and activities that filled those years. I wonder what of these things Olivia will think on when she’s in her own kitchen in the early morning hours some day. I bet it will be the multitude of cookies that we bake that connects her to me, not this Thanksgiving meal prep. I work to tell her stories of my own childhood often. I also made sure to tell her that we moved Thanksgiving this year, just for her and her brother. I want them to always feel included and welcomed and to know that their seat at this table, my table, is an important one. It might seem inconsequential that they’re here for this one Thanksgiving this one time, and yet it’s important to me.

There’s so much to think about when it’s this quiet and I’m stuck standing over these bowls. I can’t retreat to scrolling Instagram or looking up that thing I meant to research finally. I just stir and think some more. This is a dangerous scenario for me because quite frankly, I’m afraid of the stillness. I’m mostly in motion, getting things done, and I’m uneasy in the silence. I fear where my own thoughts could lead. This explains my tendency to fill every moment with people and tasks and activities.

Today’s thoughts totter on the line of sentimental and wistful. It feels as if I could easily be brought to tears and it’s thankfully time to begin preparing the pies. This will take my full focus, and I’m not mad about the transition.  

I know that as I look back on this Thanksgiving 2019, I’ll feel glad that I hosted everyone here, even though it was a little stressful at first. I’ll be thankful that I opened those doors to everyone, even though my house and my kitchen aren’t quite big enough and there’s not really enough parking. I’ll remember the conversations with Olivia as she helped me prepare this and that, and I’ll remember my family welcoming her and Travis to the table, as if they’d been there all along. I’ll remember wearing our matching aprons for the first time, the ones I’d saved for a special occasion. I’ll remember somehow pulling it all off. I’ll remember the fullness and warmth I felt inside, knowing that we’d all gathered here in my home. 

Most importantly, I’ll remember doing this, even though I didn’t feel like I had the appropriate time or resources. And I’m so glad that I did. 

To all of you celebrating the holiday this week, I send you well wishes for happy memories and yummy, stress-free dinners. I hope you’re able to find joy in the moments, even though your family might not know how to act right. Rest assured that no one does.