Thanksgiving: How We Got Here, And Why I’m Allowed To Eat This Much
Thanksgiving began as a harvest celebration. It was a simple idea: Grow food, survive winter, say thanks. The 1621 gathering in Plymouth gets the spotlight, but many cultures held harvest feasts long before that one. By the late 1800s, President Lincoln made Thanksgiving a national holiday to help bring the country together. Over time the focus shifted from survival to tradition. Today it sits somewhere between a history lesson, a family reunion, and a sport that involves casserole dishes instead of scoreboards.
That covers the responsible part of this post. Now let’s talk about the real reason we keep celebrating: the food. Because even if none of us are preparing for a brutal New England winter, we are absolutely preparing to eat like it is our last day on Earth.
This is where my stuffing enters the room like a lead actor. A bold, confident, slightly unhinged lead actor.
People talk about classic stuffing. Bread cubes. Maybe celery. Some herbs. Cute. Respectable. But my stuffing has decided it is no side dish. It refuses to sit quietly next to the turkey and behave. It is a full meal wearing the disguise of a humble carb.
Let me explain. My stuffing includes sweet and red potatoes because who am I to choose between them. Celery and onion for crunch and aroma, because balance matters. Apple and orange chunks for a hit of brightness that says I care deeply about flavor harmony. Fresh, whole cranberries for a bit of sweet, a bit of tart. Sausage because life is short and seasoning packets are lies. And then I throw in quartered brussels sprouts, which is the culinary equivalent of planting a flag and claiming territory. This is not a side. This is a commitment.
Some people say it is too much. I say it is historically accurate. Harvest feasts were supposed to be abundant. The entire point was plenty. Which means that piling my plate with enough stuffing to challenge basic physics is not gluttony but cultural respect. I am honoring my ancestors. I am preserving tradition. I am participating in a key ritual that has shaped the American identity.
[Please do not fact-check that last sentence]
Is it possible that I overdo it? Maybe. Is it possible that my stuffing alone contains enough calories to keep a small village warm through January? Also maybe. But Thanksgiving is a holiday built on gratitude, and I am grateful for stretchy waistbands, second helpings, and the inevitable moment when I lean back in my chair, stare at the ceiling, and accept that a food coma is coming for me.
And honestly, if a single dish can knock me out like that, hasn’t it earned my respect? Hasn’t it earned its place on the table? Hasn’t it earned a blog post that starts with history and ends with me defending my right to eat until I question my life choices?
Happy Thanksgiving. Pass the stuffing.
