So my parents used to live in a commune in Palo Alto, but got voted out when they wanted to have me. And as the years progressed other members of the commune split off to have kids or move to other countries or whatever until only the couple that owned the house was left. But every Thanksgiving, ex-commune buddies, family, friends, etc gather to their hearth to celebrate with a grand potluck. We’ve been doing this for as long as I can remember.
My family brings the traditional cauliflower with caper sauce, red chard risotto, and red wine cranberry sauce. My dad shows up early and smokes the turkey on the barbecue.
Over the years Thanksgiving has morphed for me. When I was a kid I loved it, and I do things like hide all of the napkins in the couch with my friend Evan (son of the house).
As a teenager, Thanksgiving was an ordeal. I never minded that we had kind of a weird set up compared to my friends, but I was a shy bookish teen who felt uneasy around strangers and near-strangers. Evan and my interests had diverged by this point, and my sister was still a child, so I didn’t have anyone to talk to. I spent Thanksgiving in an uncomfortable broth of social awkwardness and boredom.
Now that I’m an adult, I’ve learned how to talk to people. The age difference between my sister and me is no longer relevant, plus we get along well and have common projects to talk about should everyone about us suddenly fail in upholding a conversation. And Evan and I are now both in the comics business, and therefor have plenty to say to each other. It’s nice to enjoy the holiday again.