By Babett Sason  

Thanksgiving has always been different for me, devoid of the clichés that define it for others. Turkey never graced our table — I found its texture too dry and its appearance unappetizing. My family gatherings were small and intimate, just the four of us. Thanksgiving often eclipsed my birthday or sometimes overshadowed its preparation. But through it all, my dad ensured that I always felt special, even when others didn’t. 

My mom had a dry, no-nonsense personality and was often lost in her world of ambition, working tirelessly in a demanding hospitality career. Her pragmatic approach to life left little room for sentimentality. My dad was her opposite — a charming, enigmatic figure who brought warmth and spontaneity to our home. They were never married, though they shared an unusual bond that transcended traditional definitions. 

Every Thanksgiving, my dad would come to our house for the week to ensure the holiday never overshadowed my birthday. Together, we created a celebration that felt entirely our own. Instead of turkey, our table was filled with steak and lamb, perfectly paired with Idaho potatoes and his lovingly prepared Fűszerezett vöröskáposzta — a spiced red cabbage dish inspired by his Hungarian roots. Dessert was always strawberry cheesecake — his favorite.  

Our routine was predictable but comforting. We always celebrated at my mom’s house. At 7 p.m. sharp, football blared on the TV as we sat around the dinner table, sharing stories over steak, lamb, and Fűszerezett vöröskáposzta. My dad would tell me tales of his youth — adventures with his wolf mix dog, a story I still refuse to believe — and offer me life advice. We’d talk about everything from my dreams to his latest projects. 

At midnight, our tradition took us to the mall. I’d drag him from store to store until bags weighed his arms down. He never complained, and his enthusiasm for these late-night shopping sprees matched mine. Together, they created a haven where Thanksgiving and my birthday merged into a celebration that was uniquely ours. 

For years, I didn’t appreciate it. I dismissed those evenings as boring, too routine, lacking the spark of spontaneity. How little I knew. 

This year, the tradition broke. 

My dad, now too frail to make the trip, spent Thanksgiving alone in his red armchair in his Upper East Side apartment. His energy has dwindled as age has caught up with him, leaving him unable to participate in our holiday traditions. For the first time in 25 years, I spent Thanksgiving — and my birthday — without him. 

The day unfolded differently, almost surreal. 

Instead of the familiar rustle of grocery bags filling the air, my apartment lay wrapped in an unexpected stillness. The hum of life was absent. My mom had gone to work, leaving the space quiet and empty, and at 8 p.m., my partner’s family arrived to pick me up. We drove to Romeo’s for dinner. 

For the first time, turkey graced my plate, paired with mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, gravy, and a bottle of white wine. The dessert was carrot cake. Football games were played on the restaurant’s TV, but the noise felt hollow, like an echo without substance. 

I longed for my dad’s comforting scent, a mix of his favorite cologne, 4711, and cigarette smoke. His raspy laughter, the warmth of his hands on my shoulders as I blew out my candles — gone. 

It was then that I truly understood what I had taken for granted. 

The predictable rhythms of our small celebrations are irreplaceable. If I could speak to my younger self, I would tell her to hold on to those moments a little longer, to savor every redundant detail, to treasure the sound of his voice, the glint in his green eyes, and the quiet magic of a four-person dinner. 

This year, I confirmed I still don’t like turkey. And I’d trade any fancy restaurant meal for one more night of steak, lamb, Idaho potatoes, and Fűszerezett vöröskáposzta — shared with the people who made my world feel whole.