Something I didn't even know was on my bucket list has been

Jesse Tyler Ferguson spoke with both humor and awe when he declared: “Something I didn’t even know was on my bucket list has been achieved. I have cooked Thanksgiving dinner with Martha Stewart. I vow to follow the gospel of her teachings and do my very best in the remarkably less glamorous kitchen of my own home… without the luxury of magically appearing prep bowls filled by a staff of sous chefs.” These words, though wrapped in jest, reveal a deeper current of wisdom: the joy of unexpected blessings, the humility of learning from masters, and the truth that the sacred work of creation is most noble when done in ordinary places.

The origin of this saying rests in Ferguson’s experience as both an actor and lover of the domestic arts. To stand beside Martha Stewart, the matriarch of American homemaking, and to prepare a feast as grand as Thanksgiving dinner was for him both surreal and holy. It was not merely a meal, but a memory forged in the presence of one whose mastery turned kitchens into sanctuaries. Yet, even as he marveled at her command of craft, he recognized that most of us return not to gleaming studios with sous chefs, but to humble kitchens where the true work of love is done.

History echoes this truth. Think of Julia Child, who brought French cuisine to American households. In the shining studios of television, she taught recipes with confidence, but she never forgot to remind her audience that greatness begins in modest kitchens, with ordinary pots and pans, with courage to try and fail. Or recall the medieval guilds, where apprentices worked under masters, watching their skill with reverence, yet eventually carrying that craft back into their own villages, where life was not gilded but real. Ferguson’s story is but a modern echo of this ancient pattern: the disciple learns from the master, then returns to his own hearth to practice with humility.

The bucket list achieved by surprise is another lesson in itself. How often do we discover joys we never thought to imagine? Many seek after greatness through rigid plans, chasing what they think will make them whole. Yet sometimes the most radiant blessings are those we never asked for, yet arrive unbidden. To Ferguson, this unexpected experience was a revelation: that sometimes life grants us more than we dared to dream. The wisdom here is to remain open, for blessings often arrive not as we planned, but as we are ready to receive.

There is also humor in his reflection about prep bowls filled by sous chefs, and yet the humor hides a truth: in life, most of us do not live with perfect conditions. Our work is rarely made easy. We labor without assistants, without shortcuts, often in kitchens crowded, with dishes piling high, with chaos humming around us. But it is in these less glamorous spaces that the true spirit of creation, of perseverance, of love is revealed. To cook for family with limited tools is a greater triumph than to cook with every resource at hand, for it proves the resilience of love.

The lesson, therefore, is radiant: honor the masters, but embrace your own humble craft. Learn from those who inspire you, yet do not despair if your tools are simple and your space unglamorous. The essence of creation—whether in the kitchen, in art, in work, or in love—is not found in the glamour of conditions, but in the sincerity of effort. The feast that matters most is not the perfect dish, but the love with which it is served.

So, O listener, take this wisdom to heart. Welcome the unexpected joys that life places before you. Sit humbly at the feet of masters when fortune grants you such moments, but return with pride to your own hearth. Do your best with what you have, even without sous chefs and shining prep bowls. For in the end, greatness lies not in glamour, but in the spirit of gratitude, diligence, and love. And when you cook—or live—let your life itself become the true Thanksgiving feast: humble, imperfect, yet overflowing with joy.