A Feast for One: How Thanksgiving Found Me Again

 What is your Thanksgiving tradition?

Thanksgiving has worn many faces in my life—crowded kitchens, 22-pound turkeys greeting the dawn, aunties in aprons, cross-country flights gone wrong, and now a quiet table set for one. What hasn’t changed is that tug of nostalgia as the house fills with the familiar scents of butter, broth, and something slowly roasting. My celebration today looks nothing like the chaotic family feasts of my childhood, but in its own way, it’s become just as meaningful… maybe even more so.

My Mom hosted Thanksgiving for our family of eight plus two spinster aunts. Those were the days when you had to get up at 5:00 a.m. to put the 22-pound turkey in the oven. But really, the preparations started days earlier. The turkey was thawing in the fridge at least four days ahead of time. Luckily we had a second fridge out in Dad’s shop, which freed up the kitchen fridge for the butter, eggs, celery, and real cream for whipping. I have such vivid memories of those behind-the-scenes rhythms.

I took over hosting when I was 23, newly married, living in the duplex we owned (the other side rented out to pay the mortgage). Fortunately, everyone brought a side dish, making it much easier than Mom’s solo marathon. That tradition only lasted a few years before we moved to California after the great Ohio blizzard.

In the Bay Area, we created a new tradition: inviting friends and neighbors without nearby family to a Thanksgiving potluck. We tried making the trip back to Columbus our first year in California, but it was a disaster of delays, missed connections, and luggage frozen on the tarmac for days. After that, we stayed put and made our own celebrations.

Fast forward to intergenerational JB in Lake Oswego. These days the kidults and grands go to Jesse’s side of the family for holidays and birthdays. I no longer join them—the drinking gets out of hand, tempers flare, and frankly, my blood pressure prefers peace. So now I get to cook all MY favorites, light a candle, and settle in with a BBC detective drama. Honestly… bliss.

Dressing has always been my favorite dish. I use a pared-down Pioneer Woman recipe with three kinds of bread (one being cornbread), and it’s a once-a-year treat I should probably allow myself more often. And yes—I make homemade gravy. This year, instead of Costco’s massive pumpkin pie, I’m making a small one from One Dish Kitchen, just a few perfect servings for one. I’m also trying her green bean casserole for one.

And the main event this year? Duck confit. I’ve never had it, but one of our fancy grocery stores carries fresh-frozen confit. Thaw, sear, serve. It’s already fully cooked, but the butcher told me that searing takes it from delicious to ooo-la-la.

These days my Thanksgiving table may be smaller, quieter, and blissfully drama-free, but it’s also filled with gratitude—the simple kind that comes from honoring old memories while creating new, gentler ones. Whether you’re feeding a crowd, traveling across states, or enjoying a peaceful feast for one, I hope your holiday brings exactly what you need… even if that’s just good food, a warm candle, and a detective solving a case in the background.

COOKING FOR ONE in a household of five

I enjoy eating. And I enjoy cooking. I wouldn’t want to do it every day—let’s not get crazy—but lately Jesse finally acquiesced and handed me the Tuesday dinner baton. (It helped that he was coaching Deacon’s soccer team and didn’t walk in the door until well after 6:30. Desperation breeds delegation.)

My Tuesday specialty quickly became soup because everyone seemed to eat at different times anyway. My chicken noodle soup is nothing fancy, just honest comfort food. I learned long ago to serve the cooked noodles—or rice—on the side so they don’t bloat into sad broth-sponges. One grandson likes mostly broth, the other prefers to shovel in mostly noodles, and the rest of us land somewhere in between. So it was a Tuesday night win-win-win-win.

Then I tried homemade marinara with a small pasta buffet: spaghetti? penne? both? They even liked gnocchi, which made me feel like Giada for at least five minutes. Some nights I put out a little salad smorgasbord — lettuce, cukes, carrots, celery, olives, nuts, cheese, protein — giving everyone the illusion of choice. Works like a charm.

But today’s topic isn’t about feeding a family of five.  It’s those wonderful, rare evenings when I want to cook just for me.

Years ago I stumbled onto a website called One Dish Kitchen. It’s run by a husband/wife team, and I swear her email newsletters could talk me into cooking things I didn’t even know I wanted. Her introductions are charming and her tips for using up leftover ingredients are pure gold. She’s on Facebook, Instagram, and—if I could subscribe hourly, I probably would.

Here’s my guilty pleasure: every so often I send my family on little overnight (or two or three) road trips. Go, be free! Drive somewhere! Eat snacks! And once the house is blissfully quiet, I suddenly have the energy to do a project. (Never again oven-cleaning. That was traumatic. This time maybe the pantry.)

But here’s the key: when I get into project mode, I don’t want to stop and cook. So I’ve been slowly creating a tiny stash of single-serve casseroles. Years ago I bought myself a cute 5”×5” casserole dish from One Dish Kitchen—white, simple, and apparently invisible, because whenever someone empties the dishwasher, it disappears into the Bermuda Triangle of our overcrowded cabinets.

So yesterday I treated myself.  I ordered a three-piece set in bright, unapologetic RED:

• a 5” square baking dish,
• a 10-ounce ramekin,
• and a 5”×7” casserole dish (technically for one… or two… or a very hungry me).

I'm hoping the RED will ensure these items get back to the Grandma kitchen shelf  I keep a few kitchen items on the shelves in my room.  So I can easily find them again.  The citrus juicer.  The bottle opener.  Large serving platters.  A soup tureen.

And last but not least—my secret weapon—I always keep a few ready-to-eat single servings of protein in the freezer. On those nights when the mood strikes, I just grab one, defrost it, warm it up, toss it onto a giant salad, and pat myself on the back for being both practical and deliciously self-sufficient.

Sometimes cooking for one feels like a little love note to myself.

And honestly? I’m starting to think I deserve more of those.

Vanity? Or Just Self-Care Evolving?

Am I getting a little too vain these days?

I splurged this morning and got a foaming enzyme facial—soooo luxurious. There were at least ten different steps: pre-cleanse, cleanse, tone, exfoliate, massage, foaming enzyme, mask, and several layers of moisturizing and protectant serum. My face felt like it had taken a short vacation to a spa in the clouds.

But this is just one phase of my current project: lightening age spots. Last month I signed up for a package of three microneedling sessions.
Face needling (also known as microneedling) is a minimally invasive cosmetic procedure that uses tiny sterilized needles to create micro-punctures in the skin—basically telling your body, “Hey, let’s make some fresh collagen!”

Benefits: It can smooth texture, soften fine lines, brighten tone, and even get rid of peach fuzz (though it does grow back).

Procedure: After applying a topical numbing cream, my aesthetician went to work giving me a surprise hand massage during the wait time.

Recovery: My face looked a bit pink for a few days—like a mild sunburn—but within a week the dull skin flaked away, leaving a brighter, firmer surface. Skincare products absorb better now, which feels like getting a bonus round.

Some people take collagen supplements, but the science isn’t conclusive. Personally, I’ll stick with homemade bone broth—it feels comforting and might just be helping my skin and my immune system.

So yes, maybe I’ve crossed over into the land of facials and serums—but if feeling good in my skin is vanity, I’m okay with that.

 

POLLYANNA

 "Pollyanna" refers to the 1913 novel by Eleanor H. Porter about an orphaned girl who finds something to be glad about in every situation. Over time, the name has come to describe a person who is excessively optimistic — often said with a touch of disdain. I loved that movie. Maybe because I was 9 or 10 and at that wonderfully impressionable age. (In fact, I may need to watch it again.)

There are people who use my word — Pollyanna — as an insult. But I think there’s something brave about staying hopeful, especially when the world seems determined to serve up the opposite. I do try to use positive words more often than negative ones. When we expect good things to happen, and are hopeful, usually good things do happen.

When I took a philosophy course years ago, I learned that negative comments tend to open conversations more easily than positive ones. I still remember the example: a group of people are waiting at the bus stop and someone grumbles, “This bus is always late.” Another person sighs, “I’m going to be late for my appointment,” and someone else adds, “This waiting is ridiculous.” The conversation flows easily — until a cheerful voice says, “I’m so glad it’s sunny.” Suddenly, silence. Negativity builds camaraderie; optimism, it seems, sometimes just halts traffic.

“Most folks are as happy as they make up their minds to be,” said Abraham Lincoln — one of my favorite presidents.  And one of my favorite quotes. Happiness is an internal choice, not an external circumstance.

Years later, I got to explore that idea again when I took the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator (MBTI), the personality test developed by Isabel Myers during World War II and based on Carl Jung’s theories. It sorts people into sixteen personality types based on preferences and behaviors.

Luckily for me, I got to take the test when my husband was president of a small manufacturing company (about 100 employees). He was big on team building, and I suggested — quite persuasively — that I could benefit from the testing too.

My result? INTP.
I = Introvert
N = Intuition
T = Thinking
P = Perceiving

Every once in a while, I retake a free online version, and it’s pretty much the same. I find it reassuring — like rereading a favorite book and finding that the plot still fits.

So maybe being a Pollyanna isn’t naïve after all. Maybe it’s just another way of choosing perception over pessimism, of deciding that life’s “late buses” aren’t quite so bad when the sun’s still shining. And if that makes me a Pollyanna, I’ll gladly wear that badge.