A tale of two tables

• Thanksgiving isn’t really about the menu or the decorations but rather the people who make you who you are, wherever you may be.

Thanksgiving has always been one of my favorite holidays. It’s not flashy or commercialized, and there’s no rush to buy presents or decorate weeks in advance. It’s a day that asks for something much simpler—gratitude. It’s about family, friends, and food… and, of course, football.

When I was growing up in Ohio, Thanksgiving was a big event on my mom’s side of the family. The air was crisp, the trees bare, and the scent of roasted turkey and pumpkin pie seemed to fill every corner of the house. My grandmother—”Blue-eyes,” affectionately nicknamed after the Elton John song she used to sing to me as a baby—could have easily been featured in Southern Living. Her Thanksgiving table was pure perfection. The linens were pressed, the silverware gleamed, and every dish had its place. She had a way of making the day feel special—elegant, yet warm and full of love.

My cousins and I always sat at the “cousins’ table,” which was our own little world. We thought we were so grown up sitting there, clinking our sparkling cider in champagne glasses and giggling between bites of turkey and mashed potatoes. I can still remember the sound of laughter echoing through that house—the adults talking in one room, kids laughing in another, and my grandmother humming along to her favorite songs as she refilled serving bowls. 

And no Ohio Thanksgiving was complete without chocolate peanut butter Buckeyes. Those little candies—half-dipped so they look like the state tree’s famous nut—were a staple. I used to help my mom make them, rolling the peanut butter centers and carefully dipping them in chocolate. To this day, I make Buckeyes every year with my own children. It’s a tradition that has followed me from my childhood kitchen in Ohio to my home in Mississippi. My boys love rolling the dough just like I did, and I love that something so simple connects generations of our family.

After the meal came our “program”—an all-kid production we’d practiced for hours. My cousins and I performed songs, skits, and dramatic readings. To this day, I could sing the iconic song “Tomorrow” from Annie in full character, and I have no shame about it. That tradition was our way of saying thank you in the best way kids knew how—with laughter, music, and the pure joy of being together.

And then came Friday—the day of The Game. In Ohio, the rivalry between Ohio State and Michigan isn’t just football; it’s practically a religion. Time stops when that kickoff happens. Decked out in scarlet and gray, surrounded by snacks, we were glued to the TV. That week, no one even dares to say the letter “M.” And though I’ve lived in Mississippi for years now, I still jokingly refer to it as “ississippi” during rivalry week. Old habits die hard.

As the years went by, families grew and spread out. The cousins’ table became a memory, and the baton was passed to new kitchens and new homes. Life shifted, as it does. I got married and eventually made my home in Mississippi, where I was welcomed into my husband’s family’s version of Thanksgiving—Southern-style.

My husband’s family hosts a big, loud, laughter-filled celebration complete with casseroles that could win blue ribbons, fried turkey, sweet potato pie, and football playing in the living room. There’s always an extra seat at the table, and someone is always offering another helping of something. The energy is lively and unapologetically Southern.

One of my favorite Thanksgivings was the year we hosted both sides of our family at our old home in Purvis. My Ohio family came down, and my husband’s family from Mississippi joined us. Two worlds collided in the best possible way—cornfields met cotton country. The weather was perfect, the sky was blue, and the air smelled of pine needles and fried turkey. We set round tables beneath the tall pines and ate under the golden sunshine of South Mississippi. My children played with aunts and uncles, as grandparents swapped stories. I recall thinking how fortunate we were to have had that moment. It was one of those rare days when everything felt right in the world.

Now, our own family has a few traditions of its own that we have added into the mix. Every year, on the night before Thanksgiving, we watch “A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving ” together. And, just like Snoopy, we eat popcorn, pretzels, buttered toast, jelly beans, and ice cream floats. It started as something silly when the kids were small, but even now—our oldest is fourteen—they still look forward to it. I know I do, and I hope they’ll continue this sweet tradition with their own children one day. 

As I’ve grown older, I’ve come to realize that Thanksgiving isn’t really about the menu or the decorations. It’s about the memories that link us together—the songs sung in a childhood living room, the Buckeyes cooling on wax paper, the laughter under the Mississippi pines. It’s about the people who make you who you are, wherever you may be.

I am thankful for the family that raised me, for the one I married into, and for the one my husband and I are building together. I have always believed that families are forever. And this year, as every year, I’m thankful for it all.

Blessed to be raised in corn country and to grow old in cotton—that’s my story, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.