By Kimberly Phyfe 
It was so close to Thanksgiving that I could almost taste the gravy. Could almost feel the heft of a fluffy pile of mashed potatoes on a giant spoon, waiting to plop onto my plate and get smothered in butter and salt. Could almost feel like I was already in trouble for plucking the crispy fried onions off of the top of the green bean mush. Who wants yucky old green beans anyway when there are crispy fried onions to be had?
I could almost see the family all crowded around our dining room, festively adorned with jewel-toned tablecloths we only ever saw on holidays. My grandmother’s china plates that I was never allowed to touch and must never go in the dishwasher. They were lined with real gold, I was told, and the dishwasher would ruin them. Real gold. We must’ve been royalty.
We weren’t royalty, of course, although my mother never let us eat like anything less. There was a giant turkey my father would carve with his annually sharpened electric knife. I could almost hear that knife, brrrrrrrring away at the bird, after hourrrrrrrs in the oven. Sweltering up the whole kitchen, begging my mother to peel off her cozy warm winter layers near the heat of the stove.
I could almost see every pretty serving platter we owned lined up on the counter, waiting to be heavily laden with roasted vegetables, yeasty bread rolls, and so much stuffing. You can kidnap me anywhere with stuffing.
I drifted off to sleep on Thanksgiving Eve with visions of sweet potato pie dancing in my head. I awoke early to watch the parade—the only day of the year I was excited to be aroused from my slumber. But something was woefully amiss.
My mother was not in the kitchen. The oven was not steamed up with turkey drippings. The counters were not lined with glass and ceramic platters from generations of women who had hosted holidays before us. There wasn’t a woven placemat in sight. My mom was on the couch, sipping her coffee, still in her pajamas.
Dreading the worst, I asked her what was wrong. Was it not Thanksgiving anymore? Did I sleep through it and miss the most delicious day of the whole year? Had someone died?
No, my mother assured my worried little mind. There was no world war to speak of, no death in the family, no pending rapture.
“I quit,” she told me softly. “I’m on strike.”
I was 10 years old. What on earth was a strike?
Well, she began. No one helps me plan the food, shop for the food, cook the food, store the food. No one helps me set the table, clear the table, take out the trash. No one helps me clean the house or decorate the house. You all just think the holidays show up on their own. Like the Thanksgiving Fairy will make the meals and vacuum the floors and guess what? The Thanksgiving Fairy is me. And I am on strike.
“But what does that mean?” I pleaded.
“It means I’m not doing it,” she said. “Any of it. You’re on your own.”
I have never seen my father or my brother in a more stunned silence than this moment. We were quiet all day. We were quiet while she sipped coffee in her pajamas. We were quiet when she turned off my dad’s football game and turned on What A Wonderful Life in black and white. We were quiet when she took a midday nap. And we were very, very quiet when she served us Kraft Macaroni & Cheese for dinner.
Because she wasn’t about to let us starve. But she also reeeeeally wanted us to know that the Thanksgiving Fairy was on strike. No fried onions. No fancy napkins. No apple cider in a wine glass so I felt all grown up. She. Did. Nothing.
My mother has been the matriarch of our giant Scottish family, the grandparents, all the aunts and uncles, the multi-generations of cousins—she has hosted them all. My mom has welcomed in stragglers, strangers, friends, and neighbors with no place to go on Thanksgiving or Christmas or Easter. She makes everyone who sits at her table feel safe and loved. Welcome and wanted and well-fed.
As a mom and homemaker myself now, I completely get why she did what she did.
It gets lonely being the only one to make the magic, being the only one to make the memories. There is a lot of pressure in getting everything completely perfect. She didn’t want to cancel Thanksgiving. She was exhausted and just wanted the rest of us to pitch in as a family.
Every November, when my mom and I are rolling out cookies in the kitchen together, I can still hear the joyful laughter of bygone holidays ringing through our home. But the one we talk about most is the year the Holiday Fairy went on strike. The unforgettable time we ate mac and cheese for Thanksgiving dinner. And you know what? We have been extra thankful ever since.
by Carolyn Moore 
by Sherry White 
by Christine Leeb 
