I’m sitting at the big table in the kitchen of my childhood home. There’s a cloth draped over the surface, but you’d be hard-pressed to tell—nearly every inch is home to a platter, plate, cruet, boat, or glass filled with something delicious. The air is all butter, onions, and roasted meat, but I can’t smell any of it, having spent the whole morning in that kitchen surrounded by those aromas. When I look around the table I see the faces I know the best. I’m with my family. It’s Thanksgiving. Or maybe it’s Christmas.
As I write this, on a bright, hot day in early August, I know that my holiday traditions might very well remain a daydream this year. But I’m not letting it get me down. If the…
