Why Thanksgiving Is My Favorite Holiday

My dearest incurable humanist,

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. A bit strange for a Venezuelan, I know, but my affection for it began long before I ever moved to New York.

As a child, I adored the scenes I saw on American TV: the meal, the gathering, the cozy fall aesthetic that didn’t exist in Caracas but lived in my imagination. My grandmother kept a landscape calendar in her bathroom, and every year, my favorite page was November, which had a small cottage in the woods in peak foliage, facing a lake. I would stare at it, daydreaming.

Even though Thanksgiving isn’t a Venezuelan holiday, when I was in elementary school, the girls from the high school student council would bring McDonald’s for the entire school, and I thought it was the most exciting celebration ever. Untraditional, but thrilling. In third grade, our English teacher made us memorize “Over the River and Through the Woods.” I sang it enthusiastically with my mom in the car, practicing before being quizzed, imagining myself traveling to that dreamy cottage from my grandmother’s calendar.

As I grew up, my love for Thanksgiving deepened. I love that it is rooted not in religion, but in gratefulness. I know nowadays, some people want to “cancel” Thanksgiving because they see it as a holiday that celebrates and mythologizes colonialism while glossing over the genocide, land theft, and forced assimilation of Indigenous peoples that followed European arrival. Nevertheless, despite its complex history, I love how it is focused on gratitude, togetherness, and pausing to appreciate loved ones and life’s blessings. In Law School, I had an American boyfriend, and I took it upon myself to host the holiday. I prepped the entire feast myself and had friends and family over.

I treasure the last Thanksgiving I spent with my dad. My parents were visiting me in Mexico City. The three of us had dinner in my apartment. I had spent the day working at the gallery, so we didn’t have much time to cook, but we made a creamy pumpkin pasta together.

Last year, my husband and I spent Thanksgiving in Maine with two of my closest friends from high school. CNK and her partner, CT, were living there temporarily, and CT’s cousin hosted the Thanksgiving of my dreams in the most beautiful Maine home. The table was overflowing: turkey, stuffing, creamy spinach, cornbread, string beans, mashed sweet potatoes, pecan pie, lemon meringue pie, and my forever favorite, pumpkin pie.

Now I’m manifesting having a big kitchen and a long dining room table. I picture myself cooking and setting a stunning Martha Stewart-like table for the people I love, finally hosting the Thanksgiving I’ve been rehearsing since childhood.

Wherever I’ve been, Caracas, Mexico City, New York, Maine, I’ve tried to make this day special. I love that it revolves around gratitude rather than presents, or costumes, or candy, or dogma. It’s a pause in the year that feels grounding.

On this Thanksgiving, I am especially grateful for each one of you, dear incurable humanists. We are already one hundred! Thank you for being here, for reading, for joining this community.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Until next week.