Like many Americans, my family associates November with The Feast. You know, Turkey Day. Thanksgiving is a time for gratitude and celebration and feels especially poignant this year when we are reuniting with relatives we haven't seen face-to-face in years.

In our house, we take November to the next level because, in addition to Turkey-palooza, we also celebrate three birthdays: My husband's, my own, and my younger son's. If that's not complicated enough, my son's birthday often coincides with, or within a day, of Thanksgiving itself.

Our tradition is that everyone picks their birthday dinner and a cake or other dessert treat. It's interesting to see the variety of preferences within one family.

My husband is a reliable man and an apple pie aficionado, while simple tastes rule the day for my son. My soon-to-be 9-year-old birthday boy requested a vanilla cake with chocolate frosting made by his 11-year-old brother, who has recently started taking on independent baking projects. My birthday falls between these two. Unlike my routinized boys, I opt for an unusual treat, often of my own making, like tiramisu or an elaborate layer cake. I'm grateful my family indulges my need for variety, and they go along with all my crazy plans.

Jammed in the middle of all of these birthday celebrations comes Thanksgiving. When we aren't hosting the meal in Chicago, we travel to Ohio to see my Aunt, Uncle, cousins, and their families. It's a trip I've done most years since I came to the Midwest for college as a teenager.

My grandmother, and later my mother, would call me in mid-November and wish me a happy birthday, managing to slip in a subtle reminder to 'wear boots, because it's cold,' even though I lived in Evanston, Illinois, where it was also cold, and also to, 'wear something nice, because it's Thanksgiving.' I was amused by the idea that even though I was 18 or 28, my family wanted to ensure I didn't embarrass them by showing up in sweatpants for the big meal. I envy you if that's your family's style, but that's not how my maternal relatives roll.

In a few days from now, we will drive east from Chicago, and I'll make sure the kids bring their boots because it's cold, you know, and I always pack 'something nice for them to wear on the holiday because that's the way it's done. We'll tumble into my cousin's home in a flurry of dogs and kids and laughter and the bustle and intoxicating aromas of the extreme sport of dinner prep.

Hemingway called Paris a Moveable Feast, a description covering the people and the places that stayed with him even years later in his memory. I think of Thanksgiving itself as our own Moveable Feast. Through the years, we've celebrated at home and in the homes of friends and family. The faces around the table have changed; people have entered and exited our lives, and kids have grown up, moved away, and returned. But the joy of the Feast remains.

I still felt that warm embrace in the years we have celebrated with miles between us. The Moveable Feast of Thanksgiving lives in our hearts, not on our tables. I'm grateful to be together this year and in all the years we can, and when we are apart, also grateful for the love that knows no distance or time.

Regardless of location, the Feast is timeless. Someday I hope my children will come home for the holiday, wherever that is, with their own people in tow, wearing boots because it's cold, you know, and maybe even a fancy shirt. Whatever they wear, whoever they love, all will be welcomed with open arms because that's how it's done at The Feast.

A footnote for this Food issue:

I was surprised and sad to hear of the recent death of the author of Julie & Julia, Julie Powell. I was a big fan of her groundbreaking blog, and the book that followed. Her writing was honest and brutal and often an unflattering view of herself and marriage, though Nora Ephron's movie based on her work was a sunnier portrayal. Ms. Powell's sophomore work wasn't as highly acclaimed as her debut. After that, she was primarily out of the media spotlight except for a few short pieces and the occasional food media commentary.

Now, she, Ms. Ephron, and the Original Julia Child are all gone, three women pioneers from different eras with different styles working in different forms who came together through Julie's words. These women changed the way we look at food and cuisine and live on in the work they left behind with humor, humility, and grace, and for that, I'm forever grateful. Farewell, Julie, and thank you.

—
This essay also appeared in the November 2022 issue of FLM - Fete Lifestyle Magazine.