Do you have a favorite Thanksgiving memory? Do you celebrate Friendsgiving? Share your thoughts in the comments below.
A few days ago, my college roommate Bea—my ride-or-die for nearly 50 years—and I were lounging around, reminiscing about the good old days.
"Remember that time you tricked me into going to Trader Vic's for Thanksgiving?" I said, laughing.
No, no. Not Trader Joe's. I want to clarify, just in case you’re under 40 and picturing me grabbing a turkey from the frozen food aisle. Back in the day, Trader Vic’s was a swanky, Polynesian-themed restaurant tucked inside select Hilton Hotels around the country. It was the height of the exotic in the 80s—tiki torches, bamboo everything, and fruity drinks served in coconuts.
Bea looked genuinely offended. "I didn't trick you! Why would you say that?"
Read on. You decide.
I had opted not to make the two-hour drive to Marshall, Texas. The truth is, the trip felt much farther than two hours that year. Maybe I didn’t want the questions—about the job, about my love life, about when I was coming 'home.'
It was Thanksgiving, 1982. I had opted not to make the two-hour drive to Marshall, Texas. The truth is, the trip felt much farther than two hours that year. Maybe I didn’t want the questions—about the job, about my love life, about when I was coming “home.” Maybe I just wanted quiet. As for Bea? Flying back to Chicago that close to winter? Let's just say hell—and maybe even Houston—would have to freeze over first. She hated the cold. That's why she'd moved to Texas in the first place.
"What are you doing for Thanksgiving?" she asked.
"Making turkey," I answered, matter-of-factly. Cooking would give me a sense of control, a ritual I could shape to fit my life in that moment. Home wouldn’t feel far away with a turkey roasting in the oven.
She arched an eyebrow. Skeptical. "Have you ever cooked a turkey before?"
A reasonable question.
"No, but I've seen it done plenty of times. It can't be that complicated."
"What are you gonna do with a whole turkey?"
"The same thing I've done the last 24 years—eat it."
Then she dropped the T-bomb: "I was thinking… maybe we could go out to a nice dinner instead."
My body froze. I was horrified.
Go out? To a restaurant? On Thanksgiving?
Everything in me screamed ABOMINATION.
"That's not Thanksgiving!" I said. "I'm making turkey. You're welcome to come over."
She looked at me like I was the crazy one. "A whole turkey? You live alone. You don't even know how to cook a turkey. Why do you want to do all that?"
She arched an eyebrow. Skeptical. 'Have you ever cooked a turkey before?'...Years later, Bea informed me she had no intention whatsoever of being anywhere near the first turkey I ever cooked.
"Because that's what people do on Thanksgiving!" I explained it to her like she was a six-year-old. "Families gather around a turkey, and we 'ooh' and 'ahh' over it. At least that's what you do when you're from Marshall. Maybe in the big city, y'all do something different. But where I'm from, you eat too much turkey, too much dressing, too much of everything. You fall asleep on somebody's couch, and you wake up to do it all again."
Thanksgiving meant my grandmother's kitchen, the smell of collard greens and cornbread, the sound of laughter, and the warmth of love and tradition. It meant pound cake and freshly baked pies—sweet potato and pecan. It meant hugs, catching up, and stories around the table. It did not mean tiki torches and coconut shrimp.
But Bea was undeterred. "Let's just go out. It'll be fun. We'll get dressed up. Drive to Dallas. Trader Vic's has a buffet—all you can eat."