I really like routine and tradition. I guess it gives structure to my restless mind. Of all of my traditions, though, Thanksgiving in Philadelphia is the longest running. I’ve been spending Thanksgiving in Philadelphia for the past thirty-six years.

We used to go to Lehighton, PA to see my maternal grandmother for Thanksgiving. Since we were in Pennsylvania anyway, we would always drive an hour to Philadelphia on Friday for Thanksgiving part two with my father’s cousin Joe and his wife Muffy, Joe’s mother Ursula (one of the coolest people I ever met), and his sister Margaret Ann.

In college, my grandmother passed away, so, we started to just go to Philadelphia. When I moved to New York, I would meet my parents there. My travel to Philadelphia is one of the routines that I actually love for some strange reason. I take New Jersey Transit from Penn Station. Then I take SEPTA from Trenton to 30th Street Station, then another SEPTA from 30th Street to Merion Station. Then a walk down the street to Joe’s house.

For some reason, I love that I can take public transit on the day of Thanksgiving to get there. It’s like I’m beating the system. And by “system” I mean the two hundred dollar Amtrak tickets to take the same trip an hour faster.

I get there in the afternoon and the turkey’s already in the oven. We talk a bit, then we go for a walk around the neighborhood. You’re either the kind of person who enjoys a good walk or you’re not. We are. It’s cool.

Then we get to making food. I’ve always mashed the potatoes. They gave me that job when I was six or seven. I excelled at the position and now that I’m 41 I see no reason to relinquish it. Muffy’s in charge of the turkey, gravy, cornbread stuffing, and cranberry sauce. Joe’s in charge of the vegetables, including potatoes (technically I report to him, I suppose). Muffy makes the apple pie. Joe makes the pumpkin pie.

Clearly I bring a lot to the table. I used to bring stuff but it was never as good as what was already here. So, what’re you gonna do?

It’s the only time of year I really get to see this part of my family. I remember meeting their baby daughter Miriam for the first time when I was seven. She just called an hour ago from Portland, OR where she’s a college professor. I’ve been coming here a long time. It’s important. It’s tradition.

I turn down offers from friends to go to their Thanksgiving. I’m not with my girlfriend at the moment. All so I can come to Philadelphia for Thanksgiving. I don’t know. It’s just what I’ve always done. Nothing lasts forever but I can sure as hell stretch it as far as I can.