As the holidays approach and Thanksgiving feels like it blew past us in a blink, I’ve been thinking about my very first Thanksgiving in the United States. I had only been in Ohio for a couple of months—in the middle of nowhere, or rather, in a tiny village that somehow felt like the most welcoming place on earth. I was young, curious, and ready to learn everything this new country had to offer.
My cousin and her family took me in right away. They had me over for dinner at least once a week, and she moved through her kitchen like a true maestro—able to create magic from whatever ingredients were on hand. Finding authentic Mexican ingredients in such a small town was nearly impossible, but that never stopped her or her husband. They made supply runs to Cincinnati or even Chicago, came back with pantry treasures, and kept their freezer stocked with tortillas like it was a matter of national security.
My cousin and I grew up close. Her mom, my tía, taught my mom how to cook, so our flavors, instincts, and cravings were practically identical. I tried to contribute when I could, and at the time my star dish—my pride and joy from my microwave cookbook and library recipes—was “Mexican-style Spaghetti Bolognese.”
Let me explain before the Italians come for me: the ragu was legit—meaty, dense, full of umami. But the pasta? I cooked it the way my dad taught me: boil water with sprigs of thyme, marjoram, and bay leaves until the water turns deep yellow; remove the herbs; add the pasta with a drizzle of oil. The noodles come out fragrant and perfectly seasoned. Then I’d layer the pasta and the ragu like a lasagna, top it with salty aged Mexican cheese, and bake until a golden crust formed. Honestly? It’s delicious. I made it for years whenever I wanted to impress someone. I don’t think about that dish as often these days… and now I feel like I owe it a comeback.
Anyway—back to Thanksgiving (see? Food distracts me every time).
My cousins opened their home for a full Friendsgiving. They welcomed students and friends who didn’t have a place to go for the long weekend. We shared food, long conversations, and even the occasional dance lesson from the Brazilian TA, which definitely counted as cardio.
My cousin made the turkey in an electric Dutch oven—the same one I used this year. That thing is fast, furious, and cooks a turkey like it’s auditioning for a cooking show. The rest of us prepared the sides, and I remember proudly helping with the mashed potatoes.
It was such a beautiful time. I didn’t fully understand the meaning behind the holiday back then, but I did understand the feeling: sharing food with friends who suddenly feel like family, laughing like we’d known each other forever, and being held by a sense of belonging.
Over the years, I’ve continued the tradition. I’ve hosted Friendsgivings in my home or rotated hosting with friends so everyone had the chance to open their doors. Just like that very first one, they’ve always been about food, love, and pure joy.
I’m grateful for what I have, for what I can offer, and especially for my cousins, who taught me this tradition with so much generosity.
Mesa Confessions: My family runs on soup. Truly—give us a hot, brothy bowl and we’ll happily slurp away even if it’s 100 degrees outside or if we simply need to resurrect our souls. But here’s the twist: my mom never liked soups because of a childhood trauma. She grew up in a boarding school (and not the fancy kind), and thanks to her curious, mischievous nature, she was often punished by being sent to the kitchen to scrub dishes. That experience soured her feelings about soup. Still, she made them for us with love—just with a slightly limited repertoire. And honestly? We never complained.
Gobble gobble. 🦃
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