For me, Thanksgiving is usually about letting go. I try not to be annoying. I do my best to stay out of the way of whoever is in the kitchen. I try to keep my mouth shut when the electric mixer comes out to whip the potatoes (one year I brought my potato ricer with me, and I haven’t done that since) and canned green beans are taken out of the pantry for the casserole. I help if I’m asked t0 and I offer my services as a dishwasher. It’s just that while I always want to try new things—maybe give that menu from Bon Apetit a shot and do it to a T, or perhaps make cornbread stuffing, rather than the kind we always make, eh, eh?—in my family it’s all about doing things the same as we’ve always done them. My grandpa makes a very, very good stuffing, and my grandmother’s recipe for candied yams—boiled yams, sauteed in an electric skillet in butter and brown sugar and a few pinches of salt (to which I secretly add a few grinds of black pepper, which is unorthodox)—is, indeed, something to look forward to all year long. And holidays are about traditions, and the repetition of familiar things is just what traditions are. What’s my problem with having one holiday, one day a year, when you can roll up your sleeves and put your muscles through the those familiar motions, savor those familiar smells and familiar tastes, and enjoy the familiar company in the kitchen? Here I pound my fist on my desk: But doesn’t it start to get old, even if it’s just once a year? I think it does! Can’t a holiday can be made more special by giving something new a shot?
