The Thanksgiving advice issue

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Your big Thanksgiving questions, answered

The Bite subscribers can now join the conversation — click the speech bubble icon to leave a comment or click the heart to like this post. We recently finished up our series about seasonal, weeknight baking that included: this triple apple snacking cake, fig jam hand pies, a no-bake pear cheesecake with granola, and a better pumpkin bread — which would all make great bakes for Thanksgiving week. In the meantime, let’s dive into our inaugural advice issue!

Every family has a Thanksgiving origin story. Some begin with a grandmother’s battered recipe card, others with a shaky first attempt at gravy. But mine began, this year, with a text from Grace. 

Grace, who I once buckled into a car seat and bribed with Goldfish crackers, is now somehow a fully grown human capable of managing a stovetop, wrangling guest lists and hosting a whole Thanksgiving dinner without an adult supervising from three feet away. Time is a wheel of brie my friends; it just keeps rolling.

Her question —”Can cooking all day actually be fun?” — got me thinking. If Grace was staring down her holiday meal with equal parts courage and bewilderment, surely others were too. So I put out a call: send me your Thanksgiving quandaries, your culinary existential crises, your “is this normal?” kitchen confessions. And you did. You wrote in from inboxes and DMs and social feeds with questions about drink quandaries, annoying cousins and what to do if no one really likes pie. 

And I just want to say, before we get to answering them, how deeply, truly, grateful I am for all of it — not just the questions, but the quiet, sustaining community that has grown around this newsletter. 

Knowing you’re out there  reading, cooking and thinking alongside me  is a gift I don’t take lightly, but every time I sit down to write “The Bite,” it feels less like sending something out into the void and more like pulling up an extra chair to a table I’m lucky to share. Thank you for reading and being here. 

So, before the great grocery store pilgrimage begins, before any of us commits to peeling a single potato, let’s begin. Here are your questions — and, I hope, answers that make the holiday feel a little lighter.

This is my first year hosting! Do you have any tips for making cooking all day … actually fun? (IDK, can it be fun?) I want to keep doing this in the future so I want it to be a good experience! — Grace in Lexington 

First of all, Grace: congratulations on your inaugural hosting year! That’s a big emotional swing, and a tender one. I’m sure you’ll do great. And yes — the answer is absolutely, wholeheartedly yes — cooking all day can be fun. Not performatively fun, not “I’m smiling through gritted teeth” fun, but genuinely pleasurable, in that way long projects can feel when the rhythm carries you.

Here’s the honest bit: your first Thanksgiving is not necessarily the moment to chase the adrenaline high of marathon meal prep. That’s line-cook joy, kitchen–brigade joy — a very specific, slightly masochistic ecstasy that tends to belong to people who’ve burned off their fingerprints on sauté pans. I’d say you deserve something gentler.

So, lighten the load. Not everything needs to be hand-mashed, hand-baked, hand-whisked into perfection. Store-bought is not a concession; it’s a strategy. Your local bakery almost certainly makes pies that look like they’ve been lifted from a vintage cookbook illustration. The good grocery store can handle your pre-dinner snack spread far more gracefully than a last-minute veggie tray. And that barbecue joint you love? I would bet an entire wishbone they’re slinging pans of macaroni and cheese that will bring the house down. Outsourcing, wisely done, doesn’t diminish your meal — it scaffolds it.

Then: give yourself the gift of a little gentle structure. I know this sounds like the gospel of a very specific personality type — I nurse an ardent Filofax obsession and once started an organization Slack channel purely for sport — but there’s something deeply calming about a simple binder. Truly. Print out your recipes. Make your grocery list and your cooking timeline (note when you’re picking up anything pre-made). Scribble down your guest list with dietary quirks. It’s not overkill; it’s future-you leaving breadcrumbs for next year’s you. A time capsule of competence.

On the day itself, honor the physicality of cooking. Eat breakfast, something sustaining and easy. This is not the moment to run on fumes or holiday excitement alone. Hydrate like you’re training for a marathon. Personally, I save the wine for the actual meal; I’ve sustained enough culinary battlefield injuries while completely sober, thank you very much.

And then — the heart of the matter — curate a vibe. This is what transforms labor into pleasure. Put on music that makes the morning feel lit from within. Wear something soft and forgiving until it’s time to change. Take delight in the cook’s little privileges: the crisp edge of turkey skin you sneak while no one’s looking, the warm spoonful of gravy that tastes like a secret, the first cloud of freshly whipped cream. These tiny moments are the real feast.

If you let them, they’ll carry you through the day. And, with any luck, straight into next year. Good luck! 

This year, things are tight (that’s an understatement, right?) and I’m spending most of my holiday budget on the meal itself. How can I make my place and the dinner table feel cozy and festive without dedicating huge money to seasonal decor? — Melissa in Austin

Hosting on a budget is a rite of passage, I think—a kind of domestic apprenticeship where you suddenly realize that ambience is not something you can buy in the seasonal aisle. While I’m usually staunchly opposed to asking, “How would a restaurant do this?” (dinner parties and restaurants are entirely different planets of experience; comparing them feels like comparing a handwritten letter to a press release), there is something useful in paying attention to what makes a good neighborhood restaurant feel good.

Because here’s the secret: it’s rarely the décor you haul out once a year, the turkey-shaped anything, or the glittery garlands destined for a January trash bag. What lingers in the mind is much simpler—small sensory cues that quietly tell your body, you’re welcome here.

There’s a local spot I’ve mentioned before—Dove’s Luncheonette—and every time I’m there, I think, “Why can’t my apartment feel like this?” Not the menu, necessarily, but the way they choreograph comfort. The host stand has a bowl of custom matchbooks; the check arrives with a hand-illustrated postcard they’ll mail for a dollar. The soundtrack is actual vinyl—crackly, charming, blessedly free of Spotify commercials for paper towels. The lights blur the room just enough to make everyone look like they got a full night’s sleep. When fall rolls around, they loop a simple garland of leaves around the bar—nothing fancy, just a whisper of the season. Even the bathroom soap smells like someone thought about it for longer than five seconds.

Add in a bowl of pozole roja or thick Texas toast dripping with butter and jam, and suddenly you’re in multisensory heaven.

Holidays at home, by contrast, can feel… harsh. The overhead lights glare. The TV blares a gold-coin commercial no one asked for. The air wafts with the scent of three days of cooking (and maybe a few relatives voicing strong opinions about said cooking). It’s a lot.

So start small. Think about the senses you can gently dial up or down. If the game isn’t on, put on a record or a playlist that feels like a warm hand on your shoulder. Bring in a few unscented candles to help the room exhale a little. On the stove, set a tiny simmer pot—some cinnamon sticks, citrus peel, a rosemary sprig, a splash of water—to give the house a soft, cozy scent without overwhelming the food.

Layer in a few tactile moments: handwritten menus or place cards if that’s your vibe, or simply a stack of good blankets and genuinely comfortable pillows for that glorious post-meal sprawl on the couch. These details don’t cost much, but they whisper the same message: you’re cared for; linger awhile.

What drink (or drinks?) should I actually be serving with Thanksgiving dinner? Do I need to provide a variety of alcoholic and non-alcoholic options for people to choose? One of each? Pair with courses? — David in Chicago

In my world, adult Thanksgivings have become a kind of beverage Venn diagram where no circles overlap. You’ve got the sober-curious friend, the cousin who talks about pét-nat like it’s a religion, the granddad who believes football season requires a beer in hand and nothing else, ever. Which is why I’ve come to swear by a three-part drinks strategy that feels both streamlined and generous: a little choreography that keeps everyone content without turning you into the household beverage director.

Before dinner

There’s a delicious little window between arrivals and the meal itself—a liminal pocket of time that begs for something bubbly and welcoming. Go for a batchable non-alcoholic cocktail: your signature mocktail moment. I like anything effervescent and not too sweet, ideally ladled from a punch bowl because punch bowls inherently make adults feel like children in the best possible way.

A favorite from a few years back: a heavy pour of local apple cider, the juice of a lemon, the juice of an orange, enough Topo Chico to make the punch bowl hiss, and citrus-herb ice cubes—twigs of rosemary, wheels of citrus, frozen in place like tiny stained-glass windows. It’s high visual impact, low lift, and everyone can drink it.

With dinner

This is where you keep things delightfully simple. Water glasses for all, of course — still or sparkling. Both are lovely, but one is truly enough.

If your family leans wine, pick a single bottle that actually suits the meal: something crisp and acidic like a zippy Sauvignon Blanc, a light-bodied floral Beaujolais or even a gently funky orange wine. Then grab a comparable non-alcoholic option (I’m very fond of several from Non—they do complexity without leaning syrupy).

If your people are beer people, think versatile: an amber ale or clean lager, plus a solid N/A counterpart. Athletic makes good ones, though many skew hoppy, so keep your audience in mind.

Basically: aim for a one-to-one ratio of alcoholic to non-alcoholic choices, and keep the lineup short. You’re feeding people, not running a bar program.

After dinner

This is the moment where so many Thanksgiving tables lose the thread. You’ve made this gorgeous meal and then—nothing.But a thoughtful after-dinner drink is such a gentle pleasure. Personally, I think it should almost always be coffee: the aromatics alone become a bridge from turkey and stuffing to pie and whipped cream. 

Brew a fresh pot with good beans. Set out a few small luxuries—cream or oat milk, maple syrup, cinnamon—and let people build their perfect cup.A simple, old-fashioned coffee-and-dessert bar feels charming, cozy and complete. The kind of ending that lets everyone exhale.

I have hosted family Thanksgiving for the last decade and ask this, semi-lovingly, with a particular cousin in mind: What do I say when someone insists on helping in the kitchen, but actually makes things worse? We’re talking burning dishes they forgot to take out of the oven and, once, a cut hand that almost resulted in going to the ER! This has been going on for years! It feels ridiculous, but I also don’t want to cause a scene or hurt feelings. — Anonymous 

Ah, yes. The overeager holiday helper — that perennial character in the Thanksgiving tableau. They materialize in the kitchen year after year, radiating earnest goodwill, and yet somehow leave a trail of small calamities in their wake. A scorched casserole here, a mysteriously missing oven mitt there and that one unforgettable afternoon when a forgotten paring knife and a moment of bravado nearly sent you both to the ER. It’s almost cinematic in its predictability.

But here’s the secret that makes this dynamic feel less maddening: people drift into the kitchen for very different reasons. Some are hardwired to pitch in; their hands feel itchy if they’re not chopping something. Others flee there because they don’t quite know what to say in the living room and need a task to justify their presence. Still others — and this may be your cousin — simply want to be near the action, hovering like an enthusiastic stagehand hoping for a cameo. Understanding which category your cousin falls into can help you strategize long before the turkey hits its final internal temp.

If they’re the socially anxious mingler, give them a soft landing outside the kitchen: a sprawling 1,000-piece puzzle with a painterly scene; a set of elegant adult coloring sheets; a beautiful Audubon matching game with delicately illustrated birds; or even a few old-school metal brainteasers that make people hum thoughtfully to themselves. Create a little annex of contemplative delight in the living room — somewhere to land with a drink and a snack and not feel adrift. Often, that’s all someone like this really needs.

But if your cousin is the type who truly wants to contribute — who wants the feeling of being useful without, you know, wielding a chef’s knife in a crowded room — then yes, of course you can say “no.” No is a whole sentence, and a heroic one at that. But you can also borrow a page from the “yes, and” playbook to redirect their energy with grace. Typically thought of as a core tenet of improv comedy, author Kendra Adachi recommended it as a hosting posture in a recent episode of her podcast and it’s astonishing how well this works on a holiday built on both chaos and choreography.

Picture it:

• “Of course — and would you mind building a playlist for dinner? I trust your taste more than my own right now.”

• “Yes! Could you float over to the dining room and check that we’ve got the right glasses on the table? And maybe light the candles while you’re there.”

• “Totally — and actually, would you be our official Greeter? People are arriving any minute and you have the warmest vibe.”

• “Yes, please — would you refill the water pitchers so we’re set for dinner? It’s the one thing I always forget.”

It’s all about offering them a role in the production that doesn’t involve hot surfaces or sharp edges. It honors their enthusiasm, protects your kitchen equilibrium, and keeps the day humming along with the kind of gentle, slightly cinematic glow that makes Thanksgiving feel like Thanksgiving.

Hey there! Happy Thanksgiving Week. Do you have any extra — or different — advice for our readers who wrote in? Or do you have your own lingering questions before the big day? Comment on this issue or send in an email at [email protected].

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What to make this week: Embrace the trifle

Lydi, my friend in Asheville, embodies this dilemma. Over the phone, she explained: “I think the pandemic made a lot of people rethink how they do holidays. For us, that meant a real, official family meeting last year, led by my project manager dad, complete with a ‘dessert survey.’ The meeting itself was unnecessarily complicated, but the result was resounding. Everyone was on board with Thanksgiving flavors, like pumpkin or sweet potato—but nobody actually liked pie. Cake feels wrong. Cookies aren’t really celebratory. Ideas?”

Enter the trifle, a dessert that doesn’t get nearly enough credit for its multipurpose holiday charm. It’s dramatic without being fussy, customizable without being complicated, and frankly, visually festive in a way that says we tried, but not too hard. 

For me, trifles sit in the same category as icebox cakes—slightly chaotic, unexpectedly good and suspiciously easy. In fact, I’d characterize it as a holiday triple-threat: easy to make, easy to serve, easy to clean up. Over the summer, I wrote a whole guide to upgrading icebox cakes, and most of the same rules apply here: start with a hero flavor, hand-whip your cream and layer with intention.

Some trifle ideas to consider this Thanksgiving:

Apple Cider Doughnut Trifle

Day-old cider doughnuts are your secret weapon—they’ve got just enough dryness to soak up cream without turning mushy. Tear them into rustic chunks and toast lightly in butter until the edges crisp and scent curls through the kitchen. Fold a touch of Greek yogurt into hand-whipped cream: the yogurt keeps it airy and adds a subtle tang that cuts through sweetness, creating tension on the tongue. Roasted apples, dusted with cinnamon and brown sugar, bring soft caramelized notes, while spoonfuls of apple butter introduce deep, sticky fruit flavor. Cinnamon sugar on top adds crunch, a tactile punctuation mark that makes every bite feel deliberate.

Pumpkin Roll Trifle

Layer pound cake with thin ribbons of pumpkin pie filling and a simple maple-sweetened cream cheese. Whip cream to soft peaks for a topping that holds its shape but yields under a fork. Pecans — toasted or candied — introduce flavor and texture contrast: that little crunch can transform the dish entirely. 

Cranberry-Citrus Trifle

Stack ladyfingers with whole-berry cranberry sauce, vanilla pudding, and whipped cream flecked with a decidedly ungodly amount of orange zest. Top with candied orange peel and call it festive.

Pie, meet your new competitor.

What we’re reading and watching: Thanksgiving edition

I have long believed — with the fervor of a person who has seen far too many holiday episodes of far too many shows — that no one does Thanksgiving television quite like “Bob’s Burgers.” For more than a decade now, the Belchers have gifted us an annual reminder that the day’s true magic lies not in the glossy-magazine fantasy of perfect pies and serene tablescapes, but in the glorious, chaotic mess of being around the people you love. I wrote about this last year, and the thesis still holds:

The Belchers don’t aspire to Martha Stewart holiday perfection; they sprint straight past that exit and into the land of barely-contained absurdity, which somehow feels much closer to real life. If you want something that will charm a room of relatives ranging from small children to grumpy uncles, start with “Turkey in a Can” or “Dawn of the Peck.” They’re reliably delightful, the televisual equivalent of a second helping you didn’t think you had room for but end up grateful you took.

If a movie is more the speed of the day, the great Thanksgiving standby remains 1995’s “Home for the Holidays.” Jodie Foster’s direction is great; Holly Hunter and Robert Downey Jr. are spectacular, Anne Bancroft is at her imperious best and the script delivers one of the all-time great seasonal lines: “Go back to your own godd**n holidays!” 

It’s a masterpiece of familial chaos and catharsis — a perfect post-pie watch.

And for anyone feeling saturated with the cultural gravitational pull of “Stranger Things,” might I suggest something a little quirkier and, importantly, far more compact? I’ve fallen for the 2022 Swedish film “Watch the Skies” (released as “UFO Sweden” abroad), now streaming stateside. It’s got a big beating heart tucked inside its sci-fi premise: Denise, a rebellious teenager convinced her father was abducted by aliens, joins a delightfully oddball UFO club to uncover the truth — after father’s car literally falls from the sky. It’s funny, earnest and dotted with the sort of cozy details only a Scandinavian adventure can deliver: proper fika breaks, coffee poured with ceremony, cinnamon buns and crumbly tarts shared in dimly lit kitchens.

The kind of movie that makes you sigh happily into the couch cushions and think, “Yes. This is exactly the pace I needed.”

Until next week, 

Ashlie Stevens, senior food editor 

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