My reign as the “Queen of Thanksgiving” ended three years ago when the site of our annual ritual moved from our home in Massachusetts to the Maryland home of our son Jeremy and our daughter-in-law Katrina.

This was the third year that I was not in charge, and you know what?  That’s OK.  Much of the menu was the same because it wouldn’t be Thanksgiving without my French Silk Pie or our to-die-for brown and wild rice stuffing. But Katrina has added her own touches, and that’s exactly how it should be. 

The neighbors who joined us last year brought a friend and her two young children who were fun and fit right in.  Our older son Seth, just back from Brazil completed our group of fourteen. The “children” ranged in age from seven to forty-nine.   

The Thankful Jar was full of wonderful words of gratitude and appreciation that were read aloud by everybody at the table before dessert, a tradition that gets more amusing every year as our grandsons develop their own versions of their father’s and grandfather’s sense of humor. 

Each Thanksgiving that we are all together is a gift for which I am very grateful.

The Queen is dead.  Long live the Queen!

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