One of the many things I love about making food for others is the unintended impact it sometimes has on people. Toward the end last summer I got together with three friends from Portland for a girls weekend. The four of us have been friends since we were in our twenties living in Portland. During the weekend, in between a lot of wine drinking, we talked about cooking and recipes. One of my friends mentioned an appetizer that I used to make. She remembered everything about it, but I had never shared the recipe with her. Another one of the trio, whom I lived with in Portland, told me she still makes an appetizer that I introduced her to when we lived together. A tiramisu recipe I’ve adopted as my own, was shared with me by another friend from the group. During that girls weekend we discovered we all had recipe memories about one another.
Thanksgiving has become my favorite holiday. There’s an entire industry dedicated to Christmas excess, but Thanksgiving evokes no such feelings. There are no gifts to worry about giving. There’s no annual slog of parties to get through—and no subtle competition for who can throw the best of them. Thanksgiving lacks the kiss-at-midnight ritual that leave the unkissed feeling unloved. There’s little pressure to drink more or carouse later or otherwise engage in forced jollity. No one spends time worrying about costumes. It’s all about food, family, friends and sharing together around the same table. It’s the best.