Do you have a favorite Thanksgiving memory? Do you celebrate Friendsgiving? Share your thoughts in the comments below.
A few days ago, my college roommate Bea—my ride-or-die for nearly 50 years—and I were lounging around, reminiscing about the good old days.
"Remember that time you tricked me into going to Trader Vic's for Thanksgiving?" I said, laughing.
No, no. Not Trader Joe's. I want to clarify, just in case you’re under 40 and picturing me grabbing a turkey from the frozen food aisle. Back in the day, Trader Vic’s was a swanky, Polynesian-themed restaurant tucked inside select Hilton Hotels around the country. It was the height of the exotic in the 80s—tiki torches, bamboo everything, and fruity drinks served in coconuts.
Bea looked genuinely offended. "I didn't trick you! Why would you say that?"
Read on. You decide.
I had opted not to make the two-hour drive to Marshall, Texas. The truth is, the trip felt much farther than two hours that year. Maybe I didn’t want the questions—about the job, about my love life, about when I was coming 'home.'
It was Thanksgiving, 1982. I had opted not to make the two-hour drive to Marshall, Texas. The truth is, the trip felt much farther than two hours that year. Maybe I didn’t want the questions—about the job, about my love life, about when I was coming “home.” Maybe I just wanted quiet. As for Bea? Flying back to Chicago that close to winter? Let's just say hell—and maybe even Houston—would have to freeze over first. She hated the cold. That's why she'd moved to Texas in the first place.
"What are you doing for Thanksgiving?" she asked.
"Making turkey," I answered, matter-of-factly. Cooking would give me a sense of control, a ritual I could shape to fit my life in that moment. Home wouldn’t feel far away with a turkey roasting in the oven.
She arched an eyebrow. Skeptical. "Have you ever cooked a turkey before?"
A reasonable question.
"No, but I've seen it done plenty of times. It can't be that complicated."
"What are you gonna do with a whole turkey?"
"The same thing I've done the last 24 years—eat it."
Then she dropped the T-bomb: "I was thinking… maybe we could go out to a nice dinner instead."
My body froze. I was horrified.
Go out? To a restaurant? On Thanksgiving?
Everything in me screamed ABOMINATION.
"That's not Thanksgiving!" I said. "I'm making turkey. You're welcome to come over."
She looked at me like I was the crazy one. "A whole turkey? You live alone. You don't even know how to cook a turkey. Why do you want to do all that?"
She arched an eyebrow. Skeptical. 'Have you ever cooked a turkey before?'...Years later, Bea informed me she had no intention whatsoever of being anywhere near the first turkey I ever cooked.
"Because that's what people do on Thanksgiving!" I explained it to her like she was a six-year-old. "Families gather around a turkey, and we 'ooh' and 'ahh' over it. At least that's what you do when you're from Marshall. Maybe in the big city, y'all do something different. But where I'm from, you eat too much turkey, too much dressing, too much of everything. You fall asleep on somebody's couch, and you wake up to do it all again."
Thanksgiving meant my grandmother's kitchen, the smell of collard greens and cornbread, the sound of laughter, and the warmth of love and tradition. It meant pound cake and freshly baked pies—sweet potato and pecan. It meant hugs, catching up, and stories around the table. It did not mean tiki torches and coconut shrimp.
But Bea was undeterred. "Let's just go out. It'll be fun. We'll get dressed up. Drive to Dallas. Trader Vic's has a buffet—all you can eat."
Buffet? All you can eat? Why didn’t she say that in the first place?
"Will they have turkey?" I asked, still doubtful.
"Yes, of course, and lots of other dishes."
"And dressing?" I’m from the South. We don’t call it stuffing.
"Yes. A full Thanksgiving spread."
"You sure?"
"I'm positive."
"How much does it cost?" I asked, narrowing my eyes. That’s when I saw it—the gleam in her eyes, that mission-accomplished look.
She sweetened the deal. "If you don't like it, we can always leave."
We walk through the Toucan-carved entry. It is immediately evident. This isn’t just a restaurant—it is an island fantasy come to life, complete with tropical flowers, tiki statues, and ceiling fans softly spinning above a dining room bathed in the golden light of flickering bamboo torches.
I had a few stipulations. "They better have turkey. And dressing. And cranberry sauce—jellied, not that kind with the berries—or I'm out, and you're giving me my money back."
It seemed like a win-win. Bea agreed and made the reservation. Years later, Bea informed me she had no intention whatsoever of being anywhere near the first turkey I ever cooked.
Thanksgiving Day soon arrives
We walk through the Toucan-carved entry. It is immediately evident. This isn’t just a restaurant—it is an island fantasy come to life, complete with tropical flowers, tiki statues, and ceiling fans softly spinning above a dining room bathed in the golden light of flickering bamboo torches.
In the center of it all: a giant, glistening ice sculpture.
An exquisite, frozen bird—the size of a small child—maybe a swan or a pelican, but in that moment, it felt like a welcome from the Polynesian spirit of Thanksgiving.
The hostess guides us to our table. First things first. I scan the many serving stations scattered throughout the dining area. I see lavish carving stations of roast beef and prime rib, as well as glazed ham, with pineapple, of course.
Wait. “Where’s the turkey?” We just got here…I don’t want to make a scene…But I’m willing.
One bite and... y’all. My soul leaves my body. It hovers above me like, “Girl, what did we just eat, and why has no one told us about this before?”
And then… I see it, resting prominently in its rightful place atop a gleaming white platter – a golden roasted turkey, flanked by mounds of cornbread dressing, creamy mashed potatoes, green beans, and yes, jellied cranberry sauce, the kind that plops out of the can with those little ridges intact, not a berry in sight. Somebody’s Big Mama put her foot in this.
“Thank you, Jesus.” I exhale. I relax.
Once seated, Bea and I order drinks adorned with those cute little umbrellas—refreshing, fruity, and sweet, a full-on vacation-in-a-glass vibe. Definitely, not your grandmother’s sweet tea.
We’ve stood beside each other through breakups, breakdowns, and breakthroughs. Through promotions, pink slips, and therapy. Through cancer scares, debilitating grief, and louder laughs. We’ve shown up for each other when the world went quiet. When money ran out. When love walked out. When joy returned.
Now for an appetizer, before I head over to that turkey. I make my way to the first serving station. That’s when they catch my eye— tiny triangular pouches, with a mystery filling, golden brown and crispy looking, like tortilla chips. I don’t know exactly what they are.
“They’re crab wontons,” the server responds to my look of curiosity,
“Oh, okay.” Might as well give them a try.
I put two on my plate and dip one into a little cup of shimmering pink glaze. Duck sauce, they call it. One bite and... y’all. My soul leaves my body. It hovers above me like, “Girl, what did we just eat, and why has no one told us about this before?”
Heaven on a plate. A tender and crispy wrapper. Sweet succulent crab meat balanced with cream cheese as smooth as the caress of a Luther Vandross ballad. And that duck sauce? Sweet with a slight slap of sass.
I go back for three more.
Then... just a few more.
This is ridiculous, last plate.
Bea returns from her trip to the buffet. “You didn’t get any turkey?”
“I will,” I mumble, my mouth stuffed with crispy, creamy deliciousness. “In a little while.”
But I don’t. I never eat one bite of turkey, dressing, or cranberry sauce. I just keep circling the crab wontons. I can’t stop eating them.
Long before anyone called it Friendsgiving, we were living it—two friends choosing connection over tradition, proving that the family you create can feed your soul just as well as the one you’re born into.
Before there was crack, there were crab wontons. Who knew?
I came for turkey. I stayed for the crab wontons.
At one point, Bea, her smirk-disguised-as-a-smile, says, “Well, if you're not gonna eat the Thanksgiving food, maybe we should leave. I can give your money back.”
Evil. So petty. Uncalled for.
I go up for another plate. I am so full. I am borderline immobile. I am also deeply satisfied, spiritually.
Finding joy in the unexpected
Looking back, I realize that day wasn't about the food — it never is – not really. It was about the friend. It was about finding joy in the unexpected. And it was about letting go of traditions just long enough to make room for new ones.
Bea wasn’t just my college roommate. She was my chosen family. We had already survived finals, bad dates, broken-down cars, worse jobs, and more road trips than either of us remembers.
We’ve stood beside each other through breakups, breakdowns, and breakthroughs. Through promotions, pink slips, and therapy. Through cancer scares, debilitating grief, and louder laughs. We’ve shown up for each other when the world went quiet. When money ran out. When love walked out. When joy returned.
That Thanksgiving at Trader Vic’s proved that family wasn’t always made at a relative's house—it could be made at a buffet, between laughs, stories, umbrella drinks, and an ungodly number of crab wontons. Long before anyone called it Friendsgiving, we were living it—two friends choosing connection over tradition, proving that the family you create can feed your soul just as well as the one you’re born into.
And Bea? She didn’t trick me.
No—I didn’t get a traditional Thanksgiving dinner that year.
I got something better: a memory we still laugh about 40 years later. A story I love to tell. A friendship that’s fed me more than turkey ever could.
Do you have a favorite Thanksgiving memory? Do you celebrate Friendsgiving? Share your thoughts in the comments below.
