All Tables, Big and Small
<p>My parents came to the US as immigrants. They had no one. Then they had us. Some years, Thanksgiving was a very small affair. My parents prioritized making it special for us, cooking foods they didn’t know, willingly embracing the culture of their new homeland. I remember Pillsbury Crescent Rolls, Stovetop stuffing, and my mom making us individual Cornish hens. We sat at the little formica kitchen table, my brother and I, diving into a feast. It was quiet. Just the four of us. But we had a whole lot of love.</p>
<p>And then there were Thanksgivings in later years, when friends became our family, when distant relatives joined us from overseas, where there were loads of curries and the American spread for the kids. I learned to make pumpkin pie. It tasted like it was supposed to, but no one really ate it. It’s an acquired taste. It goes down easier with a mountain of Cool Whip.</p>
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