Traditions and transitions

I have never celebrated family-style Thanksgiving. Not officially. Except for birthdays, Rosh HaShana, and a big New Year's dinner to start the year off nice and fattened up, my family finds as few reasons as possible to get together because no one really needs an additional ulcer in their life. My mother, ever the hard-working woman, always gets a manicure and catches up on her sitting around and doing nothing on the Thursday off; I usually invite myself along with whoever I am seeing at the time and invade their family time. This year I have been a very hard-working woman. This year I am catching up on my sitting around and doing nothing, but I am not patient enough for a manicure.

Even so, this is the first year I am actually going to see my parental figure on this supposedly family-oriented holiday. She is my rock and my greatest inspiration, and for that I'm thankful for every day, not just once a year.

In terms of traditions, I think my generation, whatever it's called and whoever it consists of, likes to develop its own. Six (seven? eight?) years ago, my core group of friends from high school started doing day-before-Thanksgiving dinners, which have grown from simple pot luck's in someone's parents' dining room to elaborate menus in our down dining rooms to even more elaborate fine dining menus. People have come and gone, but yesterday we clinked glasses of red wine, cucumber martinis and passionfruit somethings, passed the entres clockwise, and laughed until every speck of dessert was gone from the generous plates provided by Anzu in the Nikko Hotel. That's my family. That's my tradition.