This week isn’t about gourmet meals, linen tablecloths, or trying to impress anybody.
It’s not the time to polish the silver or pretend your family behaves like the ones on TV. This week is about the simple meal the earth gives us, the stuff grown in dirt and hauled in by hands. It is sweatpants, old socks, and an oversized Dick Butkus jersey that has seen more gravy splatter than Soldier Field saw touchdowns in 2023. It is all the glory that a touchdown in the Turkey Bowl stands for... bruised shins, bad passes, and bragging rights that’ll last until next year's game.
You don’t need fancy decorations. You need the paper-mâché turkey your son made in second grade. The cardboard pilgrim and Indian that has been stuffed in the same bin for twenty years. That one construction-paper feather that keeps falling off. Those are the real decorations, the ones that remind you time is passing whether we like it or not.
I enjoy a buttery Chardonnay with that moist turkey. I like the cranberry out of the can; the ridges still stamped into the sides and a dollop of Kool Whip sliding down the mound like a slow avalanche. This week is built on simple tastes, honest recipes, and the kind of food that sticks to your bones.
Songs that stir memories.
Movies that never get old.
The kind that make you sink into the recliner you promised to replace before Thanksgiving.
Just around 7 p.m., someone will inevitably say, “We need bread for sandwiches,” and you will find yourself at White Hen, grabbing a loaf of balloon bread. Because that late-night turkey sandwich with soft white bread, cold turkey, mayo, stuffing, cranberry, mashed potatoes and maybe a little pepper... is one of this week's real treasure.
The week is scattered with fallen leaves, maybe a couple early snowflakes, and an odd warmth the Midwest gets in November when it wants to remind you that it still has a heart.
This is the week for thanking whoever you pray to for the straight F’s in life: Faith, Family, Friends, Food, and Football.
Don’t overthink it.
Don’t forget the dessert table and the annual battle between pecan and pumpkin. Someone always tries to sneak in a new recipe. Nobody wants the new recipe. Tradition wins every time.
This week isn’t about mountaintops or miracles. It is about the kids’ table, the flimsy folding chairs, and Aunt Tilly farting between bites like it’s part of the ritual. It’s the parades on TV, the first glimpse of Santa, and the feeling that the holidays are finally, officially rolling in.
But more than anything...
... this week is about remembering the ones who once sat at your Thanksgiving table. The ones who carved the turkey, told the jokes, said grace, or snored on the couch by halftime. Their memories keep them seated with you, year after year. Thanksgiving stacks up like leaves in the yard, one on top of another, forming a pile of years, faces, mistakes, miracles, and moments that become your family’s story.
Thanksgiving isn’t swimsuits and pool sides. It is thick sweaters, wool socks, and a fire that crackles louder than the conversation.
Loosen your belt and fart; nobody cares.
Just don’t bring up politics.
Tell jokes.
Remember mishaps.
Listen to laughter.
Say what you’re thankful for even if your voice cracks a bit.
... and before bed, don’t forget the cranberry salad you left outside to stay cold. And try, honestly try, to say “I love you” a shit ton this week. People need to hear it and you need to say it.
