“Very good.” She sighed dreamily. “He’s growing these field grasses in little boxes in class and making a photo-movie of their lives, all the way until they go to seed.”

“What the hell is a photo-movie?”

“I have no idea. He’s a genius.”

She seemed happier than in all the months I’d known her. She hugged me, full of joy and relief.

“Want some toast?” she asked.

Best. Friend. Ever.

I carry with me a dollhouse’s dollhouse.

Thanksgiving is a rough holiday when you live in a city named for Chief Seattle—hard to ignore the murderous reason the day is celebrated at all. For a white kid in public school, even in Seattle, reflections on genocide were eclipsed by construction-paper Pilgrim hats and handprint turkeys. As with the Little House books, I was oblivious. I took my joy anywhere I could get it. And Thanksgiving gave me a lot of joy.

I love every bit of consistency I can get, and every house I lived in celebrated Thanksgiving, every house had traditions for the meal—potatoes the way Nana So-and-So made them or it just wasn’t Thanksgiving. People got agro over these things, and it made me happy. I have had a seat at thirteen tables, that I can remember, for people’s very favorite versions of this, the very best meal of the year, recipes so complicated and full of fat and sugar they are made only this one day.

It was almost always noisy and fun; the kids’ table was the place, and some nice auntie or grandma always let me help in the kitchen. I have made mashed potatoes with so much sour cream and butter it would stop your heart, but you keep eating them because they are so good. I helped create a pumpkin pie from an actual pumpkin and found I like frozen Sara Lee pies better, but it was fun to make a real one, fun to roll the crust and crimp the edges and brush it with butter, fun to whip actual cream and sugar instead of using a spray can, and magic to stew actual tart and sweet jewel-colored cranberry sauce.

Only one year was Thanksgiving not so great. Seven years old, second grade, my last before I stopped eating animals. The foster parents had kids of their actual own, and they were going away to Oregon to be with the grandparents for the holiday. The other foster kids were going for home visits, but they had to find respite care for me.