Thanksgiving Traditions: Past, Present, and Hopefully, Future
Thanksgiving has always been one of my favorite holidays—not just for the food (though Veggie Mornay might deserve its own holiday), but for the sense of tradition, family, and slightly chaotic joy that comes with it.
The Past: Five Girls, Eight Cousins, Two Tables, and One Legendary Dish
Growing up, Thanksgiving meant piling into the car with the five of us girls and heading to my Aunt and Uncle’s house. With their eight kids and our crew added in, it was a joyful, bustling, high-decibel celebration. The house was packed, the kitchen a whirl of activity, and there was always someone yelling, laughing, or sneaking an extra roll when no one was looking.
There were two tables: the adult table, polished and proper, where the grown-ups passed wine and talked about “important things,” and the kids' table—or in our case, tables—scattered wherever there was room. We sat elbow to elbow, balancing plates on laps or folding tables, reveling in inside jokes and the occasional spill. It was messy, boisterous, and absolutely perfect.
And then there was the dish: Veggie Mornay. My aunt made it every year, and for a long time, it was the subject of family lore. My mom would ask for the recipe, and my aunt—either playfully or protectively—would dodge the question. For years, it remained a culinary mystery. But eventually, my mom did track it down. Whether it was a breakthrough moment or a quiet recipe reveal over coffee, she finally got her hands on it. And thank goodness—because to this day, I still make it every Thanksgiving. It’s creamy, savory, nostalgic, and loved by everyone at the table.
The Present: A Table of Our Own
Today, the celebration lives on at my house. With our two daughters, we’ve kept many of the same traditions: the turkey (of course), mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce both in and out of the bird stuffing, and that still-beloved Veggie Mornay. And yes, I write down the recipe—just in case someone wants to carry it on.
There’s just one table now, no kids' section, but the warmth is still there. We light candles, we laugh, and someone always forgets to bring out the rolls until halfway through the meal. Some things never change.
The difference now is the perspective. I find myself grateful not just for the food or even the day itself, but for the way these moments connect us across time. For the way a dish like Veggie Mornay can hold the sweetness of childhood and the comfort of adulthood, showing up on our plates year after year like an old friend.
The Future: Setting the Table for Tomorrow
When I think about the future, I can’t help but picture it with a few new little faces. I hope one day our daughters bring their own families to the Thanksgiving table. I hope the smell of turkey in the oven becomes part of their own children’s memories. I hope someone asks about the Veggie Mornay recipe and that they write it down (or at least text me for it).
I imagine high chairs tucked next to big chairs, a new “kids’ table” with crayons and sippy cups, and stories being passed down about “when we were little.” I hope our traditions carry forward—not because they’re fancy or perfect, but because they’ve always been full of love.
Because Thanksgiving, more than any other holiday, reminds me that the best parts of life aren’t grand gestures or elaborate menus. They’re the things we do again and again, the recipes we rescue, the people who gather, and the moments we cherish.
And if my future grandkids ask what makes Veggie Mornay so special? I’ll say, “It’s tradition. And garlic. Lots of garlic.”
