My birthday is always around Thanksgiving, and I always had to

Host: The kitchen clock ticked loudly, keeping time with the faint hiss of roasting fat in the oven. Outside, the world was draped in November gray, trees stripped bare, air heavy with the smell of rain and cinnamon.

Inside, the table was already crowded — mashed potatoes, stuffing, cranberry sauce, and at the center of it all, an enormous turkey, still glistening, still steaming.

Jack stood near the counter, carving knife in hand, staring at the bird like it was an opponent he’d fought one too many times. Across the table, Jeeny poured two glasses of wine, her expression hovering somewhere between amusement and sympathy.

Jeeny: grinning “You’re looking at that turkey like it owes you an apology.”

Jack: deadpan “It does. Years of trauma.”

Jeeny: laughs “Trauma?”

Jack: “You know Joey Chestnut? The competitive eater guy? He once said — ‘My birthday is always around Thanksgiving, and I always had to have turkey on my birthday. My mom was always, “Let’s celebrate your birthday on Thanksgiving.” My other siblings got to have special dinners they liked. I resented turkey. For a long time, I hated turkey. I’ve kind of gotten over it.’”

Jeeny: smiling “And you’re still in the resentment phase?”

Jack: sighing “Some scars never heal.”

Host: The light from the oven glowed across his face, making his eyes flicker gold and tired. The knife gleamed under the kitchen lamp — a soldier’s sword in a war fought over stuffing and memory.

Jeeny: “You sound like every American in denial about family holidays.”

Jack: “Maybe. But I get Chestnut. The turkey isn’t just food — it’s the symbol of forced gratitude. Of pretending everything’s fine while everyone’s pretending not to be annoyed.”

Jeeny: “Ah. So you’re not just anti-turkey. You’re anti-illusion.”

Jack: smirking “Exactly. Turkey’s the mascot of emotional compromise.”

Host: Jeeny sat down at the table, resting her chin on her hand, the faintest smile still playing at her lips.

Jeeny: “You ever think maybe it’s not the turkey’s fault?”

Jack: “Oh, it’s the turkey’s fault.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s the ritual. We turn meals into ceremonies, ceremonies into performances. And then we’re surprised when they feel hollow.”

Jack: quietly “You’re saying the turkey’s innocent?”

Jeeny: “Completely. It’s just cooked under the wrong expectations.”

Host: The sound of rain began tapping against the window, soft and insistent, like someone knocking gently to remind them the world was still out there.

Jack: “When I was a kid, my mom used to do the same thing. Combine birthdays with holidays. She’d say, ‘It’s all family, Jack — you get more love this way.’ But I never got the cake I wanted. Always pumpkin pie. I still can’t eat it without tasting compromise.”

Jeeny: “So you resented love disguised as efficiency.”

Jack: “Exactly. You get it.”

Jeeny: “Of course. I grew up with shared celebrations too — two cousins, one birthday, one cake, and always someone blowing out your candle for you.”

Jack: grinning faintly “You too, huh?”

Jeeny: “Yep. Teaches you early that joy isn’t always personal.”

Host: Her words hung softly, somewhere between melancholy and understanding. The clock ticked louder for a moment, the sound like time nodding in agreement.

Jack: “You think Chestnut was joking when he said he hated turkey?”

Jeeny: “No. But I think he was also forgiving it.”

Jack: “Forgiving the turkey?”

Jeeny: “Forgiving the memory. That’s what getting over things really means — not forgetting, just seeing it differently.”

Jack: “So… the turkey becomes just turkey again.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Not a symbol. Just dinner.”

Host: The knife finally moved, slow and deliberate. The sound of carving — that soft resistance of crisp skin giving way — filled the room.

Jack: “You know what’s funny? I think we ruin most good things by making them mean too much. Food, birthdays, holidays. We stuff them full of expectation until there’s no room left to breathe.”

Jeeny: “That’s human nature. We want meaning. But sometimes meaning’s just presence. Just being there.”

Jack: “You mean like eating the turkey, not dissecting it?”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: Jack set the first slice on a plate, the steam rising like forgiveness. He handed it to her without ceremony, without commentary. She accepted it with a small nod, an unspoken truce between cynicism and simplicity.

Jeeny: “You know, Chestnut probably never hated turkey itself. He just hated that it stood for sameness — for being folded into someone else’s version of celebration.”

Jack: “Yeah. It’s not the food. It’s the feeling of being sidelined in your own story.”

Jeeny: “But that’s the trick, isn’t it? You can rewrite the story anytime. Even if the meal doesn’t change.”

Jack: softly “You really believe that?”

Jeeny: “I do. You stop waiting for someone to bake your favorite cake, and you make it yourself. Or you pour wine over turkey and call it new.”

Host: He laughed, for real this time — the kind of laugh that clears the fog off a long day.

Jack: “You make it sound easy.”

Jeeny: “It’s not easy. It’s grown-up.”

Host: She took a bite, savoring it, eyes closing briefly. The moment stretched — calm, human, small, and somehow perfect.

Jeeny: “You know, it’s actually not bad.”

Jack: tasting his own piece, surprised “Yeah… it’s kind of good.”

Jeeny: teasing “Look at you, healing through poultry.”

Jack: grinning “Guess we all have our Thanksgiving therapy arcs.”

Host: The rain softened, the kitchen filled with warmth — not from the oven, but from something simpler, quieter: forgiveness, memory, the rediscovery of taste without bitterness.

Jeeny raised her glass.

Jeeny: “To Joey Chestnut — for reminding us that even the things we resent can come back tender, if we let them.”

Jack: “And to turkey — the bird that taught us how to forgive our childhood holidays.”

Host: They clinked glasses, and the camera pulled back, the table glowing in the soft amber light.

Outside, the rain stopped. Inside, laughter filled the silence where resentment used to live.

Because Joey Chestnut was right —
resentment fades when gratitude finds its voice.

And sometimes, all it takes
is a fork, a quiet kitchen,
and a second helping of something you swore you’d never love again.