No matter how many years go by — and they seem to be passing more quickly than they used to — the Thanksgiving memories that never fade are the ones from my childhood.

It was a time celebrated in that big old house of Grandmama’s, the same house where her parents had lived and where she and her brothers and sister had been born.

All her childhood, Thanksgivings were celebrated in the same dining room with her parents and brothers and sister around the same table around which we gathered.

The dishes we ate were traditional ones. She prepared, with the help of many hands, an array of food we all thought fit for kings.

I imagine the kitchen was populated not just with the living, but with the

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