My mom and I would work on it together, as the house filled with the intoxicating scent of roasting turkey. It was always the last thing to hit the table. I found one of those molds in a thrift store a few years ago, and I purchased it (and the little inset molds with a heart,
a tree, a star). I haven’t made it in years, but perhaps it’s time to bring that tradition back.
Maybe that’s part of what I love most about Thanksgiving, the continuity of it. The way recipes and rituals get handed down, changed a little, but still
recognizable. The cranberry mold never looked like anyone else’s, but it was ours. A small, wobbly inheritance. And maybe that’s true of families too, each of us carrying forward a mix of old patterns and new intentions, trying to make it all hold together.
For many years, it’s been easy to arrive at my cousin’s home and take a seat at their table. As guests, we admire how smoothly everything runs, the timing, the warmth, the effortless choreography of family and food. It’s easy to forget how much work goes into making it all look so natural. But when you host, when it’s your turn, you see it differently. You notice what it takes to make a feast happen, to hold everyone together. You start to care about every detail, because suddenly it’s yours to protect.
I think about that sometimes when I look at our country, the Great Experiment, as the founders called it. For a long time, it was easy to be a guest. To believe that the hard work had already been done, that democracy was self-sustaining. But hosting is different. When you see people trying to take away what you thought was already settled, the welcome, the fairness, the sense that everyone belongs, you take notice. You care a little more. You want to make sure the table holds
If the story Americans want to tell is that of cooperation and welcome, then we should start at our beginnings.