There’s a hush that falls over Thanksgiving morning — a kind of quiet magic that feels different from any other day. Maybe it’s the way the house smells — that comforting blend of roasting turkey, cinnamon, and coffee — or the sound of old family stories being told for the hundredth time. The ones that still make everyone laugh, even though we know the punchline by heart.
As a child, I was blessed with dozens of cousins, and family gatherings always happened at our grandparents’ home. The kitchen was a symphony of clattering dishes and laughter — aunts bustling under Grandma’s gentle but firm direction as the heart of the meal came together. The kids darted through the house playing hide-and-seek, giggling and sneaking peeks at the TV as we waited for the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade to begin — and once it began our eyes would widen at the sight of those enormous, floating balloons drifting down city streets that felt so far away. We were simply enchanted.
My grandfather and uncles were out hunting, bundled in layers against the chill, hoping not just for the trophy but for the meat that would help feed the family through the long winter. It was a time when gratitude was measured in full tables, warm fires, and the simple joy of being surrounded by those you loved.
I think about those days often — the long wooden table stretching to make room for everyone, the mismatched chairs borrowed from every room in the house, and the kids’ table tucked off to the side, where cousins whispered secrets and giggled through grace. The good china came out, the cranberry sauce still bore the ridges of the can, and someone was always late — but it didn’t matter. We were together.
Decades later, my cousins and I are all grandparents — some of us even great-grandparents — each with our own traditions. But as I look at my own grown daughters bustling about the kitchen, watch my son and sons-in-law gather to chat, and soak in the sound of my grandchildren’s chatter and laughter, I realize that some traditions are not taught, but inherited. They live quietly within us, passed down not through recipes or rules, but through love and repetition — the way we set the table, the way we linger a little longer after dessert, the way we make room for one more at the table.
Somewhere between the clatter of dishes and the quiet after dessert, I always find myself pausing — taking in the flicker of candles, the warmth of familiar voices, and that unspoken sense of gratitude that wraps itself around the room. Thanksgiving isn’t just a holiday; it’s a reminder. A reminder to slow down, to count blessings that don’t come with price tags, and to remember that even in the chaos, there is beauty.
So this Thanksgiving, may your table be full and your heart even fuller. May laughter mingle with the aroma of pies cooling by the window. And may you hold close the people and moments that make life feel like home.
From my heart — and from all of us at Keuka Roots — Happy Thanksgiving.
Here’s to gratitude, memory, and the simple, enduring joy of being together.
“Traditions may change with time, but love — love always finds its way back to the table.”
