It’s Thanksgiving Day in America, and before I tell you how a lemon hijacked my holiday, let’s take a tiny stroll through history—don’t worry, no pop quiz at the end.
In the 1600s, the pilgrims fled religious troubles in England and tried the exiled life in Holland. But living in poverty and working long hours in textile factories pushed them to hop—not onto a flying carpet, unfortunately, but onto a ship called the Mayflower. They sailed across the Atlantic on what must have been the most uncomfortable cruise in history. They arrived in New England in 1620, looked around, met the locals, and probably thought, “Well… can we be friends so we can have a party?” Eventually, they did manage to befriend the Indigenous people, share a meal, and create what we now call the first Thanksgiving.
From what I’ve read, the English loved eating roast meat with vegetables after church since the 15th century—a tradition called the Sunday Roast, essentially a weekly excuse to gather and enjoy a hearty meal. I do agree with the idea that some traditions deserve worldwide distribution, and gathering around a table with good food is definitely one of them.
Fast-forward a couple hundred years: after Sarah Josepha Hale, the Mother of Thanksgiving, wrote more letters to U.S. presidents than most people write emails in a lifetime, Abraham Lincoln, finally said, “Alright, let’s do it!,” and declared the fourth Thursday of November the official Thanksgiving Day.
And that leads us to today—modern Thanksgiving. A day of prayer, gratitude, and food so plentiful you start wearing loose blouse and pants for the occasion.
Now, let’s talk about the lemon.
We all know lemons: oval, sour, handful yellow troublemakers. Great in tea and desserts, but terrible to eat by themselves unless your taste buds enjoys extreme flavors. Still, lemons show up everywhere—in cooking, in cleaning, and in your water bottle when you’re pretending to be healthy.
Today, my daughter asked for help mixing her apple pie filling. I asked what she’d put in it, and she listed ingredients my taste buds could easily identify: apples, sugar, cinnamon, flour… and then lemon juice. The lemon threw me off. It felt like the nosy neighbor who shows up uninvited.
I knew lemon kept apples from turning brown, but I learned something new—it also enhances the sweetness of the dessert. Who knew that this sour fruit could make everything taste better?
And that got me thinking: aren’t life’s lemons like that too?
Those sour moments we never ask for—problems, conflicts, unexpected disasters, all the curveballs that fate can throw at us. Nobody invites them in, yet they show up anyway, dragging oversized baggage and unnecessary drama.
The pilgrims certainly understood this. They faced storms, a cruel winter, and the world’s most exhausting relocation. Yet they still paused to say, “You know what? We made it. Let’s celebrate.”
Today, I’m doing the same. I’ve had my fair share of lemons this year: losing my mom, being hospitalized, getting my phone stolen, nearly getting stranded in the Philippines because the airline system decided I didn’t exist—just a full platter of chaos.
But those lemons reminded me of what truly matters: being with the people I love, surviving the madness, and making room for joy even when life tastes a little tart.
So now I’ll ask you:
What have the lemons in your life taught you—besides the fact that they’re terrible to eat by themselves?
HAPPY THANKSGIVING TO YOU AND YOUR FAMILY!
Thank you for reading my story. Below is the link to the vegan apple pie recipe we prepared for our Thanksgiving dinner tonight.
