Thanksgiving was always a favorite holiday for me. The

Hear, O children of memory and tradition, the words of Debi Mazar, who with affection recalled: “Thanksgiving was always a favorite holiday for me. The preparation was fun! My grandma and I would walk to the butcher on Jamaica Avenue in Queens, order the bird, and buy all the fixings at the market.” At first glance, these words speak of errands and meals, of turkeys and markets. Yet listen more deeply, and you will hear the song of family, the sacred bond of generations, and the joy of rituals that shape the heart as much as the feast.

Behold the image of grandma and granddaughter, walking side by side down the bustling avenue. This is more than shopping—it is a pilgrimage of love. For in those walks, wisdom was passed, stories were shared, and a sense of belonging was planted in the young heart. The butcher on Jamaica Avenue was not merely a shopkeeper; he was part of the tapestry of community, one thread in the larger cloth of tradition. And in the choosing of the bird, in the gathering of fixings, there was joy not just in the food itself but in the act of preparation, in the anticipation of togetherness.

Mark well this truth: festivals are not only about the feast, but about the journey toward it. The ancients knew this well. In Rome, before the great feasts, families would walk to markets and temples, buying offerings, preparing homes, and filling streets with music. The journey was half the celebration. So too in Mazar’s memory, the walk to the market was as important as the feast itself, for it was there that bonds were woven and joy took root.

Consider also the story of countless immigrant families in America. For many, holidays like Thanksgiving became the bridge between old traditions and new lands. Families who once gathered around different feasts brought their children to markets in neighborhoods like Queens, where cultures blended and new rituals were born. In the act of preparation, they were not only feeding their bodies, but forging an identity—teaching their children what it meant to belong, to carry forward the stories of the past while embracing the present.

In Mazar’s memory, the presence of her grandmother is the heart of the story. For elders are the guardians of tradition, the keepers of recipes, the teachers of customs. To walk with one’s grandmother is to walk with history itself, to carry forward not only the food but the love, care, and resilience of those who came before. In every onion chopped, in every spice chosen, there is more than flavor—there is remembrance and transmission, a passing of the torch from one generation to the next.

The lesson, O listeners, is this: cherish not only the feast, but the path to it. The time spent preparing with loved ones is sacred, for it plants seeds of joy and memory that will bloom for a lifetime. Do not rush through your preparations as though they were chores. Instead, make them rituals of gratitude, of conversation, of laughter. For it is in these moments that children learn what love looks like, and adults remember what family truly means.

Therefore, let your practice be thus: when the holidays approach, walk with one another. Cook together, shop together, tell stories as you prepare. Honor your elders by listening to their wisdom, and honor the young by drawing them into the circle of tradition. Let every onion peeled, every loaf carried home, every turkey chosen be a thread in the fabric of family. For in this, you will discover what Debi Mazar revealed: that the joy of Thanksgiving is not only in the table spread with abundance, but in the journey of love and preparation that makes the feast possible.

So let it be known: the true spirit of Thanksgiving dwells not only in the turkey carved but in the footsteps walked side by side, in the hands that prepare together, in the hearts that weave memory into tradition. Guard these moments well, and you will feast not only once a year, but in every remembrance for all the years to come.