Thank you to my readers, who make it possible for me to continue in this impossibly difficult, impossibly rewarding profession.

I hope your Thanksgiving is joyous and meaningful.

Except for Thanksgiving, 1952. We had recently moved from Chicago to Los Angeles. Thanksgiving Day dawned bright and sunny and 80 degrees. My parents were thrilled and set up the picnic table in the backyard. We ate in our shorts and flip flops.

I was devastated—Thanksgiving meant frost on the pumpkins and long cold walks after dinner and “over the river and through the woods,” not picking oranges in the yard and sunglasses. Those of you who have read The Ballad of Lucy Whipple will have a clue to how I felt about the move.

Here in the Pacific Northwest I have the Thanksgiving I always wanted, except that we make heaps of turkey thighs instead of a whole bird because my loved ones and I are all dark-meat eaters. I hope your Thanksgiving is just the way you want, filled with light and love and gratitude.

Thank you for all your support. I couldn’t do it without you.

My dear friend, Robbie, has once again sent us persimmons from her tree in California’s Central Valley. They will be our Thanksgiving centerpiece. 

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday and not just because of pumpkin pie. I always have so much to be thankful for. I plan to have a splendid day and I hope you do, too.