I believe that Americans love Thanksgiving more than any other holiday.

Christmas? No. There is too much work. Picking out a tree, bringing it home, forcing it into its stand, decorating it. And all those gifts to pick out for every member of the family, then wrapping them far into the night to make the wrappings perfect – not that anyone cares about that.

Hanukah? Certainly not. Hanukah was invented when I was a boy. Previously it had been a minor Jewish holiday. But Jews wanted their own Christmas and turned an unimportant Jewish holiday into their Christmas.

Thanksgiving is the easy one. There is nothing to do except cook and eat too much. And then, perhaps, take a nap.

When I was a boy, we celebrated Thanksgiving at my grandparents’ house in West Baltimore. We lived a mile from their home. My uncles lived next door. The rest of the family drove up from Washington. There were at least 15 of us, sometimes more. The crowd itself was the tradition.

West Baltimore was also home to much of the city’s well-established German Jewish community. My grandmother had graduated from Vassar. My grandfather made his money in an early twentieth-century pharmaceutical company before retiring to pursue social causes. He loved to make trouble.

Before the meal, the grownups gathered in the living room. My grandfather sat in a rough red chair, smoking a cigar. My petite grandmother sat in a winged chair that swallowed her as she sipped room-temperature gin and smoked English Oval cigarettes, smoke rising toward the chandelier.

At 1 PM, I would slip into the kitchen. Only one person was really working; the others – Sidney, Charity, Florence – stood in the back, trying not to be noticed by my grandparents’ cook, Bobalie.

Bobalie began work in 1925 at 15 years old but didn’t admit that. She replaced Miss Hen, the original cook, whose portrait hung above the great mahogany armoire, a reminder that American history has a compressed timeline between enslavement and Thanksgiving dinners.

I didn’t know then why Bobalie was so perpetually angry, but I knew she was. Everyone knew it. Still, I was the only one who entered the kitchen during her final hours cooking. I loved Bobalie and she allowed me more liberties, so I walked in to watch what she cooked and how she cooked it.

Before I could ask anything, she would always say:

“Go away. Bobalie don’t have time for you. I don’t have time. I don’t have time to jabber with you.”

I would ask a question or two anyway and then walk out. As I emerged, someone would always ask: “How is she?” No one else dared to go in.

At 2 o’clock, my grandmother rang the silver bell made from their wedding kiddish cup – sterling silver, carved with flowers and birds. We then sat down for the feast, delivered, not displayed – plates passed to us in a long procession:

Turkey carved into slices, dark gravy with chopped giblets, mashed potatoes heavy with cream, creamed spinach topped with butter-cooked mushroom caps, corn and tomatoes slightly sweet, and sauerkraut cooked with white wine.

Sauerkraut is a Baltimore Thanksgiving tradition, brought by German immigrants before the Civil War, then embraced by Baltimore’s African American community.

Most of us took second helpings when the procession passed the second time.

Two hours later, pie finally arrived. Pumpkin pie – dark with flavor – covered with a large silver bowl of whipped cream. We ate it anyway, full or not. Then we adjourned to the living room for coffee.

We joked that politics and social work brought us together. True. But what always brought us together was food. Thanksgiving was, then, awfully important to my family.

The tradition carries on, even when the weather refuses to cooperate.

This year I am in Punta Cana. One of my sons lives here. My other son, the one in Baltimore, my daughter-in-law, granddaughters, and former wife are also here. It’s hot like summer and doesn’t feel like Thanksgiving at all. 

But traditions travel north, even if I cannot.

The rest of the family is in Philadelphia. I could not resist cooking our traditional dishes – corn and tomatoes, macaroni and cheese, sauerkraut – and sending them to Thanksgiving there.