It was the same sight I had known since childhood, a home that seemed to breathe us all back into it this time of year.
is was the anksgiving I had always known, more
e door opened before I reached it and my mother was standing there with her familiar smile, the warmth of the re behind her spilling out into the chilly evening. Inside, the house was already alive with voices and laughter. My brother’s greeting rang from the family room and the younger ones hurried past with ushed faces and arms full of bags and coats. My daughter and her husband had just arrived a er the long drive from Skipwith, Virginia. ey brought venison sausage from their hunting ranch and baskets of blueberries from the elds of White Oaks Preserve, where they host their annual festival in the summer. eir little girl (my granddaughter) ran straight for the grand piano in the great room and began plinking out notes that echoed through the tall space. e dining room looked down on it all, the children’s table already set as it always had been, waiting for the next generation to gather. A dog darted through the rooms, barking with excitement and making a game of tormenting my mother’s cat, who perched with disdain on the back of a chair. More family would soon arrive, cousins from Pittsburgh carrying boxes of sfogliatelle, biscotti, cannoli, and the ever-anticipated pepperoni bread still warm from their ovens. Friends from childhood would wander in as the evening stretched, drawn as always by tradition and the promise of food, wine, and a variety of games that lasted deep into the night. By the time darkness fell, the house seemed to glow from within. e re snapped in the family room and trays of sausage, cheeses, and breads lay waiting to be picked over as glasses of wine were passed around. Scrabble tiles clattered on one table, while Rumicube pieces clicked on another, and every so o en laughter spilled through the halls louder than the games themselves. e kitchen was full of motion,
than a holiday, more than a meal. It was a return, a gathering, a weaving together of past and present. It was the house itself, wide and welcoming, that held the years and the people inside it. Every time I arrived
I carried with me childhood memories of these rooms, of the creek outside, of the piano notes dri ing up to the balcony, of cousins running through the halls. And every time I le I carried new memories too, added like stitches to a quilt, another year layered onto all the others. It was in the food we shared, in the laughter, in the warmth of the re, in the simple joy of being together again. And year a er year it was this place, this time, that reminded me what home truly means. What I’ve come to realize is that anksgiving menus are as much about tradition as they are about taste. ey tell the story of where we’ve been, who we’re with, and the little rituals that make the day feel like our own. Whether you’re the host orchestrating the feast or a guest bringing along your favorite dish, there’s something so comforting about knowing that the avors on your table connect you to the people around it. continued
aromas of cinnamon, nutmeg, and roasted meats dri ing together until the whole house smelled of comfort.
Coastal Pearl Living - Gratitude
43
Made with FlippingBook Digital Proposal Creator