A love letter for Black Thanksgiving

A pull quote from Mahogany contributing writer Shy Taylor that reads,

It just dawned on me that we’re the new aunties. 

I don’t know when this happened because, in my mind, I’m still one of the kids waiting for somebody to yell, “Food ready!” But, somehow, we have entered an era where people are looking at us like, “So, what you bringing for Thanksgiving?” 

Excuse me? Because, the way my time is set up, y’all are getting about three dishes out of me—and that’s on a good year.

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I have a whole new respect for the old-school aunties, grandmas and mamas because…how did y’all do this? I remember when Thanksgiving used to start the night before. Folks would be in the kitchen cooking like they were catering an event for two hundred people. Greens going. Yams going. Turkey in somebody’s oven. Dressing baking. Mac and cheese getting mixed. Cakes. Pies. Cornbread. Potato salad. 

Ten different foods being cooked at the same time, but somehow the next day they would still come downstairs looking dressed to impressed. Hair done. Outfit on. Looking good. Listen, I might not be making a whole meal like the aunties used to, but if I make the mac and cheese, sweet potato pie and one additional side, please understand that I have contributed to the family. 

This is a group effort.  

So, no. Don’t walk in empty-handed, talking ‘bout what somebody else should’ve done differently. If you ain’t cooking, don’t be critiquing. Especially the mac and cheese. Thanksgiving is not the day to start experimenting with mac and cheese. We don’t need that “little twist.” We don’t need cauliflower. We don’t need raisins. We don’t need something you saw online three hours ago. Please follow the assignment, because messing up the mac and cheese at a Black Thanksgiving is not just a culinary mistake; it’s how family group chats get divided. 

Last year, my grandma finally showed me how to make her famous sweet potato pie. And when I say she “showed me,” I mean she gave me the most old-school cooking lesson that a Black grandma could possibly give. 

There were no measurements.  

“How much of this?” Just a little bit. 

“How much is a little bit?” You’ll know. 

My grandma was sprinkling things, pouring things and mixing things based on vibes and generations of ancestral instruction. But me? I’m out here trying to figure out how I’m supposed to recreate these meals when she’s not looking. But that moment with my grandma made me realize something. These recipes are more than food—they’re history. 

There’s something about the holidays that brings out the best parts of Black culture. The storytelling. The music playing while everybody cooks. Somebody sneaking a piece of food before dinner. The cousins catching up. The family member who arrives three hours late like we didn’t tell everybody the same start time. 

And then there’s the games and people slamming cards. Alliances are formed. Rules are suddenly created that nobody has ever heard of. Somebody is stacking card piles. Somebody’s yelling, “You can’t do that!” Somebody else is pulling up the official rules on their phone—and now two cousins (who were just hugging each other twenty minutes ago) aren’t speaking. That’s family. That’s Thanksgiving. 

That’s Black Thanksgiving—and I love every bit of it.  

As we get older, though, I’m realizing that it’s becoming our responsibility to keep these traditions alive. We’re the aunties now. We’re the people who have to learn the recipes. We have to host the dinners. We have to make sure the cousins still come around. We have to teach the younger generation the games, the stories and the traditions that made the holidays feel like home to us. 

Because one day you’ll look around and realize the people who created those memories for you are getting older. So, yes, Grandma, I’m learning to make the sweet potato pie. Yes, I’m bringing my three dishes. Yes, I will participate in an unnecessarily aggressive card game. Because these moments matter. Black culture lives in the big things, but it also lives in the little traditions we sometimes take for granted—the recipes nobody wrote down, the jokes only your family understands, the music coming from the kitchen, the stories, the laughter and everybody gathering around the same table. 

I’m still not making ten dishes, though. The ancestors are going to have to understand—three max! I am not going to lie. I make some bomb banana pudding and mac and cheese. But I also know better to not mess it up, so I know my grandma is proud of that. 

A portrait of Mahogany Writing Community contributing writer Shy Taylor.

Shy Taylor is a TV personality, host and correspondent seen on E!, VH1, REVOLT Black News and Baller Alert. Based in Los Angeles, she is a force to be reckoned with using her voice, presence and storytelling to inspire others to unlock their fullest potential.