In a time long, long ago, I watched my grandmother boil turnips and mash them and then place them on the Thanksgiving table as if offering the sweetest dish imaginable. My dad would sing the praises of this Thanksgiving offering, and as a little girl, I learned to love the purple-orange vegetable of ill-repute.
But this year, Thanksgiving was not at my house. This year, we were invited to good friends, who happen to be the parents of our son-in-law. In a wide web of texts between a dozen people, we guests began to offer what we’d bring to “the table.” Continue reading