When most Americans picture Thanksgiving, their minds drift almost automatically to Norman Rockwell. We all know the image. It is the famous painting titled Freedom from Want, featuring a matriarch placing a perfectly roasted turkey onto a table surrounded by smiling faces. The table is set with the standard pantheon of sides including bread stuffing, mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, candied sweet potatoes, and pumpkin pie. It is an image of abundance and uniformity that has been sold to us as the singular American experience. While this image is beautiful, it has never been a mirror for my reality. As an Asian American born and raised in Hawaii, my Thanksgiving table never looked like that.

In our Filipino American household, the center of gravity was not a dry turkey that required gallons of gravy to be palatable. It was the lechon, a spit-roasted pork with skin so crisp it shattered like glass, or perhaps a savory roasted chicken seasoned with soy sauce and calamansi. While others were passing bowls of gravy, we were passing the steamed white rice. It was not a side dish. It was essential to the meal, the canvas upon which all other flavors were painted.

Our starch wasn’t limited to potatoes. We had mounds of macaroni salad, made strictly with Best Foods mayonnaise because any other brand would be sacrilege in a local Hawaii home. The pasta was cooked soft, absorbing the rich dressing, offering a cool counterpoint to the hot, savory meats. We had pancit noodles teeming with vegetables and meat, and crispy lumpia fried to golden perfection, shattering with every bite. Instead of creamed corn or green bean casserole, our vegetable rotation included braised eggplant and the sharp, distinct bite of bittermelon, flavors that spoke to our heritage rather than the expectations of a New England autumn.

The diversity of the holiday extended beyond the walls of my family’s apartment. In the vertical neighborhood of our condo building, the smells drifting through the hallways told a dozen different stories of gratitude. It was a symphony of aromas that defied the traditional holiday spice palette. Next door on the sixth floor, my Vietnamese neighbors celebrated with lemongrass roasted pork chops and fried chicken. Their table featured vermicelli rice noodles tossed with fresh herbs and veggies, alongside platters of fresh and fried spring rolls that crunched with freshness.

Meanwhile, the Korean family downstairs had their own feast that mingled with ours in the stairwell. Their table was laden with kalbi short ribs marinated in soy and sesame, savory meat jhun, and delicate fish jhun dipped in egg batter. They adapted the holiday bird into turkey juk, a comforting rice porridge that warmed the soul and made use of the bird in a way that felt like home. And just like us, and just like the neighbors next door, they always had steamed white rice. It was the common thread in our tapestry of cultures.

That is the reality we need to embrace. The Rockwell ideal is not the normal Thanksgiving for millions of us. Now that I live here in Chicago, the menu has changed, but the diversity remains. The tropical humidity has been replaced by the Midwestern chill, yet the warmth of the table persists. I have been welcomed to tables featuring Polish sausages and hearty hunter stew rich with cabbage and meat. I have eaten slow-braised German ham hocks and pigs feet that fall off the bone. I have celebrated with Lao friends who served noodles and fish cakes spicy enough to chase away the cold. This is what America actually tastes like. It is a potluck of histories and traditions.

It is time we stop imagining the table as a single, uniform surface. We must also acknowledge that for many, the table this year is not defined by abundance, but by survival. We are living through a time of massive job losses and stagnant wages that simply cannot keep pace with the highest grocery costs in history. The anxiety of the grocery checkout line is real. For many families, the Thanksgiving meal will be lean. It might be a box of mac and cheese or grilled cheese sandwiches.

We must also remember the millions of people who have no table at all to partake in this holiday. The empty chairs this year are not just metaphoric. They represent a systemic struggle that we cannot ignore while we pass the food.

If we strip away the expectation of the turkey and the trimmings, we are left with what actually matters. Whether the table is heavy with lechon and kalbi, or light with a simple grilled cheese, the essence of the holiday remains the same. It is not about the food. It is about the pause. It is about taking a moment, amidst the struggle and the diversity of our lives, to give thanks for all that we do have. It is about recognizing that the “American” table is big enough for rice, for noodles, for turkey, and for whatever sustenance we can share with one another.

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