From Mom’s Turkey to Macaroni: A Thanksgiving Story

Thanksgiving has always been my favorite holiday—second only to Super Bowl Sunday, which I treat with the seriousness of a federal agency. But Thanksgiving carries a different kind of magic. The loudness, the food, the familiar chaos, the warmth of people who know you too well… it just feels like home in a way few days do.

Growing up, the kitchen was not my mom’s natural habitat. She didn’t cook for us much; that was basically my sister’s full-time job, and eventually she passed the torch to me and my brother. My mom was more of a “microwave warm-up” type of chef. Leftovers were her specialty. Precision cooking? Timing? Seasoning? Let’s not be dramatic.

But then Thanksgiving would roll around, and suddenly she became a completely different woman.

The same person who could turn a pot of spaghetti into a crime scene somehow became a holiday culinary genius. Turkey? Perfect every single time. Ham? Unmatched. The sides? Shockingly great. It was like she unlocked a cheat code once a year, and we all benefitted. Some families waited for Santa. We waited for Mom’s holiday dinner.

And the house was never quiet. Thanksgiving at my mom’s place wasn’t just for family—it was for extended family, old neighbors, new neighbors, stray coworkers, and at least one stranger who “just needed a plate.” Her rule was simple: if you needed somewhere to be, our home was open. Chaos was guaranteed, calories were guaranteed, and love—loud, messy, imperfect—was guaranteed too.

But everyone grows up. Lives move. Traditions shift. Eventually the big Thanksgiving of my childhood became something smaller and softer. I spent a few years drifting toward Friendsgiving, not because I didn’t love my family but because… well, I saw them all the time. Friendsgiving was the fun kind of chaos. The chosen-family chaos. The people who show up because they want to, not because they have matching DNA and a group text.

Somewhere along the way, I had to actually learn to cook. Real cooking. Not microwave cooking. Not “heat it until it’s hot” cooking. Actual seasoning and timing and oven-preheating cooking. And when I started spending Thanksgiving with my sister and her family—about five years now—that’s when I mastered my signature dish: macaroni and cheese.

I’m not saying I’m a professional, but I am saying I could open a restaurant called Macaroni HR: A Carb Experience and sleep just fine at night. That mac and cheese has become my contribution, my staple, my badge of honor. It’s a newer tradition, but it might be my favorite one yet. And let’s be honest: if someone invites me to a Friendsgiving this year, please put me down for mac and cheese. I know my assignment, and I don’t disappoint.

November itself is always emotionally weird for me. My brother’s birthday shows up on the calendar, the sun disappears earlier every day, old memories drift in without asking permission—and yet Thanksgiving still feels bright. Still comforting. Still grounding. Even when the year has been heavy, Thanksgiving somehow lands softly.

Maybe it’s the food, maybe it’s the rituals, maybe it’s just the way families—blood or chosen—manage to form a circle around each other one day a year. Or maybe it’s that feeling of sitting at a table, realizing that no matter how traditions evolve, some things stay steady: the laughter, the warmth, and the stories that get retold whether you want them retold or not.

Whatever the reason, Thanksgiving has grown with me. It has shifted and stretched and reshaped itself the way life always does. And even with new places and new faces and new recipes, it still feels like home.

So now I’m curious.

What does Thanksgiving look like for you?