Sacramento Bee staffers share their favorite Thanksgiving memories and traditions

My grandma would make a special treat for a little Bryan that nobody else would eat at the Thanksgiving table: Jell-O.

But alas, it was not your typical gelatinous substance. It had raw fruit inside of it, with its shape resembling that of a bundt cake. The bananas and grapes proved too much to bear for my father. In her piercing voice, Grandma Loretta would holler at him, “Aren’t you going to eat any?” With some reluctance, my cousin and my dad would give in and pile the smallest possible amount of Jell-O on their plate.

By the end of our annual Thanksgiving meal in Watsonville, the dish would be half empty, largely thanks to yours truly. With Loretta’s passing, the tradition has since disappeared. The memories of a berating grandmother have not.

– Bryan Anderson, reporter

It’s just a little dirty. It’s still good.

I can tell you that the very first Thanksgiving at which I cooked for guests was in Washington, D.C., in 1989, where I proudly smoked our turkey in a grill outside on the deck under some pine trees. After hours of prep, wine and college football, I went out to get the perfect bird off the grill, and promptly dropped it, where it rolled onto the sodden, pine-needle covered deck.

Naturally, being resourceful, I looked around to make certain no one saw it, then brushed the dirt and pine needles off and happily served it to my friends. It was delicious. But a bit sandy.

– Sam Stanton, reporter

Remembering ‘Tata’ through sweets

My great grandpa, who all of us great grandchildren called “Tata,” couldn’t speak English well, so he used food to express his care. Every Thanksgiving, he and my grandparents would arrive to our family celebration with boxes of goodies from their local panadería. The cardboard treasure chests were filled with crumbly conchas and cuernos for the kids, thick slabs of greasy chicharron for my aunts to gnaw on before turkey and flaky pan dulce orejas to go with tata’s post-tryptophan café con leche.

The black recliner in the living room was Tata’s throne, and my family would gather around it to nibble on his treats and reminisce about past Thanksgivings. Already in his 90s, Tata mostly listened, but his smile, laughter and warmth enveloped the room; his presence, the pillar of our home.

The Thanksgiving after he died we still gathered. The panadería box went untouched throughout the meal, all of us feeling like eating Tata’s pan dulce would be a betrayal. As we all proceeded to the living room to chat and sip coffee after dinner, my grandpa lingered at the dining table with the box. Minutes later, he emerged from the kitchen, gripping the container like it was filled with precious stones. He tenderly placed the morsels on tata’s recliner, everyone holding their breath. Misty-eyed, he picked up a buttery orejas and took a bite. We all followed suit and suddenly the room felt familiar and safe. We now make sure to keep the recliner warm for Tata every Thanksgiving.

– Akira Kumamoto, video producer

Dedicated to Apple Hill pumpkin apple pie

Every year for as long as I can remember, my family has had a pumpkin apple pie from Apple Hill on Thanksgiving. One year, we drove all the way out into the desert past Palm Springs to celebrate with my aunt and uncle – we brought the pie with us. We were dedicated.

As time passed, the family Thanksgiving shrunk. My grandparents passed away, my sister moved to Los Angeles, and I had to work, so we couldn’t travel. Two years ago, Thanksgiving was just me and my mom. Last year, my mom, my boyfriend and I ate around a card table in my sparsely decorated new apartment.

Life changes quickly, and it can be hard to keep up. Traditions are lost. But I will always, always know this: on Thanksgiving, I’ll talk with my mom over a piece of pumpkin apple pie, and everything will be OK.

– Hannah Darden, deputy op-ed editor

(Pre-sliced) Bird is the word

I fondly remember the time my mother, a wonderful cook and trained chef who makes a great Thanksgiving spread, once put out a plate of sliced deli turkey meat to make sure there was a bird on the table.

– Alexandra Yoon-Hendricks, reporter

Pregaming Thanksgiving with crab

As long as I can remember, my family has pregamed Thanksgiving dinner with a crab feed the night before. One feast isn’t enough, I guess.

There’s something of a rationale to it: We always do the holidays at my extended family’s houses in the East Bay, and Dungeness crab season typically opens in October or November. The start of the season’s only been delayed past Thanksgiving a couple times, which wasn’t that big of a deal since we usually go for Round 2 a month later on Christmas Eve. This happens to be one of those years; we’re pivoting to goulash instead.

We keep toppings pretty simple with lemon wedges and aioli, and my dad always makes his late mother’s Caesar salad, which romaines – I mean, remains – the best I’ve had to this day. Everyone’s appetite always rebounds by the time turkey hits the table Thursday, and it gives me something to do the night before Thanksgiving other than have the same “How’s life going, what are you up to?” conversation 50 times over in a hometown bar.

– Benjy Egel, reporter

This story was originally published November 25, 2019 at 4:00 AM with the headline "Sacramento Bee staffers share their favorite Thanksgiving memories and traditions."