We host Thanksgiving in my mother's apartment in New York. I

J. Kenji López-Alt, master of the culinary craft and observer of life’s simple truths, once spoke with humor and humility: “We host Thanksgiving in my mother’s apartment in New York. I don’t know if you’ve seen many New York apartment kitchens, but they are not known for spaciousness.” What may appear as a lighthearted remark about cramped city living carries within it a wisdom that transcends walls and square footage: that love, tradition, and gratitude do not require vast spaces, only open hearts.

At its root, this saying reminds us that hospitality is not measured by the size of the room but by the spirit within it. A banquet hall with cold hearts is emptier than a tiny kitchen filled with warmth, laughter, and the fragrance of shared food. The small New York kitchen, crowded with dishes and people, becomes a temple of togetherness, where the limits of space are overcome by the abundance of love. López-Alt, by pointing out the contrast between expectation and reality, invites us to see that Thanksgiving thrives not in grandeur but in sincerity.

History gives us vivid examples. Consider the first Thanksgiving of 1621. The feast between the Pilgrims and the Wampanoag people was not set in a grand hall but under the open sky, around makeshift tables, with the simplest of utensils and surroundings. Yet it was remembered for centuries not because of its luxury, but because of its meaning—survival, friendship, gratitude, and community. In the same way, a modest apartment kitchen in New York carries forward that same spirit, proving that sacred feasts need not be spacious to be great.

The image of the small kitchen also speaks of creativity and resilience. To prepare a great feast in a space not designed for abundance is an act of ingenuity, patience, and love. It requires coordination, sacrifice, and sometimes humor. In this way, the kitchen itself becomes symbolic of life: we are rarely given all the room we desire, but with what we have, we can still create beauty, flavor, and joy. The art of feasting, like the art of living, is not found in perfection but in adaptability.

There is also something profoundly humbling in his words. Many might think a celebrated chef requires vast resources and tools to prepare a feast. Yet here, López-Alt acknowledges that the greatest meals of his life are not born in professional kitchens, but in the humble home of his mother. This humility points us back to the essence of Thanksgiving: gratitude for what we have, not longing for what we lack. A cramped kitchen may be inconvenient, but it becomes holy ground when filled with family and memory.

The lesson for future generations is clear: do not wait for perfect circumstances to create joy. Do not imagine that only when your table is large enough, your home grand enough, your kitchen spacious enough, will you be ready to host love. Begin with what you have. Welcome others into your space, however small. Fill the air with gratitude, laughter, and the aroma of care. For in doing so, you will discover that true feasts are measured not in the width of a room, but in the depth of connection.

Therefore, let J. Kenji López-Alt’s words endure as teaching: whether in a palace or a cramped New York kitchen, the spirit of Thanksgiving is the same. It is found not in square footage, but in the warmth of family, the honoring of tradition, and the joy of giving thanks. Let us remember always: space may be limited, but love expands to fill every corner. And where love reigns, even the smallest kitchen becomes a kingdom of abundance.