The story I retell every Thanksgiving.
My father was a beatnik artist in New York in the 1950s.
He later taught art at Greenwich Country Day School, where I attended on a full scholarship.
Simply Recipes / Courtesy of Alice Levitt
His classroom was rumored to have a dead cat in the trash can, waiting for the bravest students.
He had both bizarre predilections and symptoms of mental illness.
Thanksgiving was no different, and one that remains especially vivid in my memory is from 1993.
It was the Thanksgiving that colored all future celebrationswhat I eat and with whom I share the day.
I wore a Pilgrim costume my mom sewed together.
The piece de resistance was my moms baked applescored Granny Smiths wrapped in frozen pie dough.
He sat on the couch, crossing and uncrossing his legs like Sharon Stone inBasic Instinct.
My grandmother, a doppelganger for a Jewish Emily Gilmore, was scandalized but couldnt look away.
Uncle Jim had a friend I only knew as the long-dead Hutch.
My father reconnected with Hutchs daughter, Anneke.
They had a shared affection for Monty Python and vintage British humor.
Despite the distance of their child-of-a-friend-of-a-friend relationship, Dad struck a fond attachment with her.
Anneke and her husband, John, a braid-wearing Native American museum curator, joined us, too.
It was Johns idea to make our Thanksgiving a potluck that year.
My extended family brought warmed rolls and dessert.
Mercifully, it wasnt an eel, but it had hollowed-out eyes and a gaping mouth.
Did anyone eat it?
Im sure my father did.
He was a chubby, rosy-cheeked boy eager to learn our traditions.
Before the fish made it onto our plates, the kids went upstairs to play video games.
Thats when the house began to fill with smoke.
Someone had lit a fire in the fireplace and hadnt opened the flue.
Our guests threw on their coats and said their hasty farewells in our circular driveway.
And just like that, our Thanksgiving wrapped up, only a couple of hours in.
However, that one Thanksgiving is emblematic of how he instilled in me a powerful lust for people.
And keeping an open mind has defined my adult Thanksgivings.
I want so desperately to give life to her traditions.
Now that Im married, my husband and I have a tradition of our own.
This year, for the fifth in a row, well head out for Korean barbecue.
Even though neither of us is Korean, its important to us to celebrate what we love.
Because at its very roots, Thanksgiving is designed to converge cultures.
And in that way, I think my father taught me very well.
Since 1993, Ive been doing it right.
