Some people see Thanksgiving as a day of gratitude. For me, I joke that it’s the start of a torrid love affair with leftovers that ends all too quickly. But truthfully, Thanksgiving isn’t just about the meal; it’s about the recipes and traditions that bring it to life. Growing up, my parents loved to cook, and I blame them for turning me into a self–proclaimed food snob.

Not the fancy kind who insists on truffle oil. No, I’m the kind of snob who reads recipes like bedtime stories and has strong opinions about pie crust. (If yours doesn’t have vodka in it, we need to talk.) My love of food isn’t just about perfection, though — it’s about connection. It’s about sitting around a table with people you care about, sharing meals, stories, and maybe a recipe or two. Nothing embodies this more than Thanksgiving, which is why I felt unease this year, realizing how far we’ve drifted. I worry that we’re losing touch with cooking, real food, and the traditions that once anchored us around the table.

A few weeks ago, I wanted to try a new recipe for Thanksgiving and needed Panko breadcrumbs. I wasn’t in my usual store and asked customer service for help. The clerk stared at me like I’d just asked for a rare gemstone. “Breadcrumbs? Is that a spice?” she asked before directing me to the bread aisle.

Then, just this week, I overheard a customer at the checkout asking where to find mincemeat. Two clerks exchanged confused looks. I stepped in: “Aisle five — the baking aisle.” These moments are funny, but they’re also revealing. Breadcrumbs aren’t bread — they’re what happens when bread gives up on its dreams. And mincemeat? It’s not some culinary enigma; it’s just a pie filling that once had a seat at the table far more often. I’ll admit mincemeat might be a bit niche these days, but breadcrumbs?

These little moments point to something bigger — a shift in how we view food. Somewhere along the way, cooking turned into a chore rather than an act of care. And convenience edged out connection, quietly taking over our diets, more than we’d like to admit. Seventy–three percent of the U.S. food supply is ultra–processed, which is a nice way of saying it lasts longer than your average houseplant. It’s no wonder so many people think cooking from scratch is impossible — why bother when you’ve got frozen dinners that can survive the apocalypse? They may fill us up, but they rarely nourish us — and research suggests they might do more harm than good to our health in the long run.

That’s why the story of three students at Cony High School in Augusta fighting to reclaim the importance of food stopped me in my tracks and left me so inspired. Dreams Hill, Mohammad Alsaid, and Abdullah Aledany didn’t just ask for better food — they made it happen. They circulated a petition, gathered nearly 400 signatures, and convinced their school to add vegetarian, vegan, kosher, and halal options to the cafeteria menu. This wasn’t about hummus or Caprese flatbreads; it was about creating a space where everyone at the table feels included and respected. It’s about more than food — it’s about dignity, choice, and the idea that what we eat matters, not just to our bodies but to our sense of belonging.

These students reminded their community of something so easily forgotten in today’s world: food should sustain, nourish, and connect us.

As I finish the last of my Thanksgiving leftovers, I’m thinking about the recipes I want to pass down. Maybe it’s the vodka pie crust, or our family cranberry sauce with dried cherries and red wine. Maybe it’s something new. But whatever it is, I hope it’s shared around a table with people I care about.

Because whether it’s perfecting a pie crust or advocating for better school lunches, the message is the same: food should nourish us, body, and soul, and show that we care for each other — not just fill our bellies. The changes the Cony students fought for go beyond inclusivity; they’re a step toward healthier, more thoughtful eating — meals that fuel learning, growth, and well–being. A varied menu that includes vegetarian and vegan options offers something for everyone and encourages a connection to the food we eat — a connection we risk losing in our convenience–driven world.

The Cony students have shown us that food can be more than just fuel — it can bring us together, inspire change, and remind us of what really matters. Their work didn’t just change a lunch menu; it changed a conversation, one we all should be having. Because if three kids in Augusta can teach us how to nourish a community — with food that’s healthier, more inclusive, and more meaningful — the rest of us have no excuse not to follow their lead.