I absolutely adore Thanksgiving. It's the only holiday I insist

"I absolutely adore Thanksgiving. It's the only holiday I insist on making myself." In this simple yet profound statement, Ina Garten reveals the deep connection between love, labor, and tradition. Her words carry more than culinary meaning; they echo the timeless truth that the act of making—of preparing with one’s own hands—is itself an offering of the heart. In a world where feasts can be catered, celebrations outsourced, and traditions diluted, her insistence on crafting Thanksgiving personally is an act of reverence, an acknowledgment that some moments are too sacred to be left to others.

The origin of this sentiment lies in the very spirit of Thanksgiving itself. The first gatherings of harvest feasts were not grand productions but intimate labors. Families and communities came together, each hand contributing to the meal. The act of preparing food was inseparable from the act of giving thanks. By declaring that Thanksgiving is the one holiday she will not yield to another’s preparation, Garten stands within this lineage of gratitude expressed through labor and hospitality. She claims ownership not out of pride, but out of devotion, for she knows the feast is most meaningful when love has seasoned every dish.

History itself confirms this truth. Consider the story of Abigail Adams, who during the Revolutionary War, while her husband John was away, worked tirelessly to preserve the household and still prepare feasts for her family and neighbors. Though resources were scarce, her table became a symbol of resilience and thanksgiving, embodying the principle that what is made by one’s own hands carries a weight far beyond the food itself. Abigail, like Ina, understood that to make the feast oneself is to preserve its meaning and bind it to the heart.

There is also a spiritual lesson here: to insist on making the feast oneself is to reject passivity and embrace the sacred duty of stewardship. Food, in this sense, is not just nourishment, but a vessel of memory, culture, and gratitude. When Garten prepares Thanksgiving herself, she is not only cooking; she is weaving stories, preserving traditions, and blessing her loved ones with the fruit of her labor. The kitchen becomes a sanctuary, the pots and pans her instruments of prayer, the dishes her hymns of thanksgiving.

Yet, beyond the kitchen, the message is universal. To "make it yourself" is to resist the temptation of convenience when sacred things are at stake. It is to acknowledge that love is proven not in words, but in actions. Just as Garten claims Thanksgiving as her own, so too should each of us find those moments in life that are too precious to delegate—whether it be writing a letter by hand, teaching a child with our own voice, or preparing a feast with our own labor. The act of making becomes the act of loving.

The lesson for future generations is this: do not surrender the sacred to convenience. Hold fast to at least one tradition that you insist on making yourself. In doing so, you will pass down not only recipes or customs, but the essence of love itself—the truth that time, effort, and personal touch are the greatest ingredients of all. A holiday prepared in this way is more than a celebration; it is a testimony, a gift of the heart that cannot be bought or borrowed.

Practical action flows easily: choose a tradition that matters deeply to you and claim it. Prepare the feast, light the candles, tell the story, sing the song—but do it yourself. Let your hands carry the weight of memory and your labor sanctify the moment. Teach your children that the making is as important as the eating, for in the act of preparing, you sow seeds of gratitude that will last long after the dishes are cleared.

Thus, Ina Garten’s words become not just a statement of culinary preference, but a timeless teaching: Thanksgiving is most holy when it is made with one’s own hands. To insist on making it yourself is to embrace gratitude, honor tradition, and pour love into every dish. In this, the holiday transcends food and becomes what it was always meant to be—a living feast of love, gratitude, and remembrance.