But it wasn’t those dishes, all expertly prepared, that caught my attention. I glanced at multiple tables filled with what seemed like dozens of dishes: turkey, brown sugar-glazed ham, sweet potato pie, collard greens and ham hocks, mac and cheese, gravy and, well … you get the gist. I’d just traveled with my immediate family from my hometown of Houston the day before, bringing groceries and cookware for the day ahead. It was Thanksgiving, one of my earliest memories of a holiday that regularly took place at that same home throughout my life. In the mid-1990s, I walked into the dining room at my maternal grandmother’s house in Baton Rouge, Louisiana.
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