Approximately two weeks before Thanksgiving day, a small tinge of guilt started to pull on my feeble heartstrings. The face of Big Ben suddenly began to resemble that of Nonna’s, gazing at me across the Thames with yearnful longing and just a hint of quiet disappointment. I knew she would be baking me a sweet potato, saving me a slice or seven of prosciutto, and washing at least three pounds of grapes just in case I magically decided to appear at the table for Thanksgiving dinner.

As the date got inevitably closer, the tinge of guilt grew expectedly stronger–this time accompanied by vivid visions of stuffed mushrooms, butternut squash ravioli, chestnut stuffing, cranberry sauce, and pumpkin pie. I imagined myself covered in flour after spending hours in the kitchen the night before the big day to bust out an apple pie, at least two loaves of pumpkin bread, and some sort of nutmeg spiced muffin. The abrupt halt of the Tube shocked me out of my daydream and I suddenly remembered that I was not wearing an apron.

Finally, Thanksgiving came. The ultimate occasion for the exaltation of plenty, when gluttony is no longer a sin, but a necessary virtue. Naturally, we hauled ourselves to Sainsbury's and bought every culinary classic associated with the holiday. But longing still hung in the air. A little piece of tradition was missing. Where was Mom stirring the cranberries as they sizzled in the pot? Did Dad bring home the whipped cream for the pumpkin pie? Had Grandma glazed the turkey?

And then we started cooking. Max put up a pot of butternut squash soup, Lauren left the lemon and rosemary dressed chickens roasting in the oven, I lined the sweet potato casserole with sticky marshmallows, Amika stirred the brussels sprouts until the edges were slightly singed, and Lilian expertly designed a charcuterie board fit for a Michelin Star. At once it filled the air. It’s Thanksgiving.

We filled our seats at the table and unapologetically ate to our heart's content, the conjunction of our traditions living and breathing in one space, connecting us through our appetites and hearts from across the table to between our plates. In that moment, we were bound.

If food means love, then Thanksgiving treasures food because we share it endlessly. It’s the gift that keeps on giving.