Won Ton Soup.

I suppose if I moved to a new country, it'd take some getting used to. The language, directions, holidays. But after 30-something years, I think I'd get the swing of things. Pilgrims meet Indians, who help them survive the winter, and they share dinner to celebrate. Feathers, shoe buckles, and all. Thanksgiving.

And then there's my dad. Who, like, gets the concept but refuses to adhere to the whole turkey ideal.

Growing up, I dreamed of dining at a long, mahogany table, complete with personalized seating cards. In the shape of maple leaves. My father–who'd be wearing a suit and be freshly shaven–would carve the turkey. In a single slice. We'd all sit around the table, toast with apple cider, and quietly enjoy the fruits of our labor.

And then there's my dad. Who, like, has other ideas about Thanksgiving.

Like the one year he made won ton soup. On Thanksgiving. Lemme repeat that in case you didn't read it: WON TON SOUP. That year his sister and her family joined us for Thanksgiving and he had! this! great! idea! to make won ton soup for no apparent reason. As my siblings and I sat at the kid table–covered in a gold, metallic table cloth that burned my retinas–I wanted to scream, Sacagawea did NOT eat won ton soup!!! And it was unlikely that she made salsa to put on her turkey, but I had a feeling that argument would go no where in my household.

And then there's my dad. Who says the Thanksgiving prayer. In his heavily accented cadence. And thanks God for his chance to come to America, the ability to put food on the table, and raise a family who loves him.

And that right there? That's like a pass to serve won ton soup FOR LIFE.