The Writing Pulse

For the first time since 2020, I spent Thanksgiving Day with my family. That alone felt like a celebration. After years of distance, the simple act of gathering around the table carried a weight that no recipe could measure. 

In our African American household, the staples are non-negotiable: collard greens simmered low and slow, baked mac and cheese bubbling golden in the oven, yams rich with flavor, and all the flavors that feel like home. These dishes aren’t exclusive to us, but in our community, they’re traditional — they’re the heartbeat of the holiday. 

This year, the mac and cheese was my responsibility. I stayed up late whisking a roux, folding in butter, flour, milk, and spices until the sauce was silky and rich. Layering it with cheese, I handed it off to the oven, waiting for that perfect crust to form. My sister, who also helped with the cheese sauce and greens, the baker, filled the kitchen with sweet aromas, while my younger brother hovered, eager to sneak bites before the cooking was done. 

By the time the turkey had roasted for four and a half hours, the rain had settled outside, casting a gray hush over the day. I sat on my mother’s porch, listening to the drizzle, waiting for the mac to finish baking. There was something grounding about that moment — the quiet outside, the warmth inside, and the knowledge that after years apart, we were here together again. 

Thanksgiving isn’t just about food. It’s about the effort, the tradition, and the comfort of knowing that even in the gloom, there’s a fire waiting inside. 

Happy Thanksgiving 🦃