From turkey to crawfish: A tale of two holiday kitchens

I live in a world where one Thanksgiving has never been enough. Two tables. Two families. Two completely different ways of showing love through food.

This has been my norm for as long as I can remember, and honestly, I would not trade it for anything. 

One meal gives me calm and tradition. The other sweeps me into a riot of noise and spices and people who love loudly. Together, they tell the full story of who I am.

Tradition on the table

On Thanksgiving Day, we spent the afternoon with my in-laws. The moment we stepped inside, we were wrapped in the smell of roasting turkey, buttery potatoes, and a sweet potato casserole rich enough to qualify as dessert. Christmas decorations were already up, glowing softly in every corner.

Their home always feels calm in a way that settles you from the inside out. Voices stay gentle, the dog is polite, and even the kids seem to understand that they can play quietly.

Each dish was a reminder of holidays past, comforting in its consistency and rooted in tradition: savory green beans cooked with strips of bacon, creamy mashed potatoes, soft rolls that arrived fashionably late but worth the wait, cranberry sauce filled with bits of mandarin orange and walnuts, and of course the pumpkin pies with freshly made whipped cream alongside our aunt’s famous sherbert punch.

After dinner, we counted the coins Grandma saved for the grandkids so they could buy gifts and also give a little back. Black and white movies, like “It’s a Wonderful Life” and “Remember the Night,” played quietly until “Home Alone” took over, and the kids howled with laughter at Kevin’s shenanigans.

The adults looked through an old history book of Richland County, reading stories about bears in the 1800s and tracing how land and names changed over time.

It was simple and steady — a kind of peace that does not ask for attention. It just is.

A kitchen in chaos

A few days later, we had Thanksgiving (round two) at my house, which runs on an entirely different orbit.

When I stepped outside for a moment and walked back in, the smell hit me so hard I was suddenly transported to my Grandma’s kitchen, padding around barefoot while Granny bustled. Cajun spices. Butter. Heat. Noise.

It all crashed over me at once. People talking over each other. Kids running upstairs. Dogs trying to sit on every available lap — it was a true holiday hurricane.

This year, we started with kickin’ crab dip, queso, and meatballs. Dinner brought crawfish etoufee in crispy phyllo cups, deep-fried deviled eggs that I definitely ate too many of: slow-smoked turkey so tender it fell off the bone, cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes studded with roasted leeks and garlic, jalapeno bacon cornbread, chili from my best friend (who cooks from the heart so it never tastes exactly the same), and rolls.

Dessert brought Dairy Land ice cream pies and my mom’s bourbon pecan bread pudding, all of which we were far too full to eat, but we did anyway.

The noise should have been overwhelming. It usually is. But this time it felt just right. 

What I loved most was all of us being together. Growing up, with most of my family in Louisiana, we didn’t have these get-togethers often.

Now, watching my mom cook five different dishes at once while doting on a baby, sneaking scraps to the dogs, and listening to the kids shriek with laughter as full conversations buzzed through the living room fills my heart.

After the last guest left, the house fell into a gentle calm, the scent of our feast still clinging to the air.

My daughter, too excited to sleep, wanted nothing more than to play, and I let myself savor that moment. The dishes could wait.

More than a meal

Both meals fed me, but not in the same way.

My in-laws gave me calm and soft conversation.

My family gave me noise, energy, and pure life.

One side offers gentle steadiness.

The other offers bold, messy love.

Together, they fill both halves of who I am.

This Thanksgiving reminded me that food is more than fuel. It’s connection, it’s memory – it is the one thing that always pulls us back to one another, no matter how different our worlds may be.

And that is the heart of why I write this column.

Food brings people together, and gives a place where differences shrink and common ground grows.

Whether it’s eating a traditional Thanksgiving on Thursday or a mishmash of untraditional dishes on Saturday, it all counts.

The meal was never about perfection; it was about the people who shared it.