God, I'm an ingrate!

Princeton refocuses the peculiar, teaspoon-sized details that compose your idea of home: what your laundry smells like coming out of the dryer, whether or not you put your elbows on the table during dinner and the last person you say goodnight to before falling asleep. The tiny grey details of the everyday, which slipped by unnoticed during high school, revealed themselves with transparent intensity after I came to Princeton. Cable TV became a rare and beautiful thing. I realized no one but my mother would think of buying batteries before my TI-83 died the morning of an astrophysics exam. Freshman fall, I had weekly what happened to all the clean clothes, and why doesn't the Wawa sell Q-tips moments. But the biggest of my little realizations was that I wasn't going home for Turkey Day because California was too far away with only two days off.

From earliest memory, Thanksgiving has been my holiday of choice. In kindergarten, when asked to list my favorite hobbies, I responded reflexively: "eating." Clearly, feast holidays were my scene.

I loved waking up early with my mother to bake pies from scratch; I loved watching my father wrestle the turkey — a pale mass of cold, bumpy flesh — into the oven, knowing the bird would reemerge burnished gold, glowing with juice and steam. Our kitchen bustled deliciously as we popped out pies, squelched potatoes with butter and coaxed gravy from fat drippings. Thanksgiving was like a pleasant storm — a tempest of taste and chatter that swept through my home, filling my family with talk and good, warm food. Though I'm not overly sentimental, I'd never celebrated Turkey Day without my family; the two seemed inseparable.

As November approached, my roommate asked me to have Thanksgiving dinner at her uncle's house in Albany, N.Y.; I accepted gratefully. Up until the invitation, I'd envisioned a grim holiday for myself on campus. Clad in Dickensian knickers and a patched sweater, huddled by a drafty windowsill gnawing on a turkey bone, I would shake my fist at the skies, cursing the exorbitant price of airline tickets. Albany sounded like more fun.

But spending Thanksgiving with my roommate had its own set of problems. Before setting off, Julie told me to bring along my hiking boots. As an OA Level 5 survivor, merely alluding to boots was enough to strike fear into my heart. When I mentioned the dreaded footwear to my mother over the phone, she recalled Julie's mother saying that the family sometimes hunted and gutted its own turkey — hence the boots.

The idea of shooting a bird concerned me. My marksmanship defied physics; on numerous occasions, I had stood directly above a trashcan, dropped a piece of paper and missed. Misplaced bullets would be problematic, particularly with people nearby. On the upside, singlehandedly bringing down the main entree for Thanksgiving dinner would be a great icebreaker. How hard could it be? I'd simply tap into my deeply ingrained seek-and-destroy instincts. If the Pilgrims did it in those ridiculous hats, my odds were reasonably good.

As we drove up to Albany, my initial optimism began to wane; by the time we pulled into the driveway, absurd apprehensions had flooded my mind. When are you supposed to put your napkin in your lap ... before saying grace? Afterwards? Grace ... shit ... what if I have to say grace? I forget how to do that ... Granny made us take turns around the table saying what we're thankful for on Thanksgiving ... what am I thankful for? Umm ... for ... mini-paper clips? ... oh God, I'm an ingrate ...

After spending five minutes with my roommate's relatives, however, my worries vanished. They were warm, easy-spirited people who welcomed me without reservation or uncomfortable ceremony. Slowly, I was drawn into the kitchen: I seasoned potatoes; I whipped cream; I monitored the development of the all-important gravy. We sat down to platters of steaming food, shared what we were thankful for and swapped embarrassing family legends. Overstuffed yet still digging into pie and ice cream, a golden tempest of taste and chatter swirled above our heads. Like home.

That night, we drove back to campus with leftover-laden Tupperware and tryptophan comas. Watching the charcoal-grey countryside rush fluidly past my car window, I realized I wasn't going to be able to move or eat for several days at least. I realized college redefines home in peculiar, teaspoon-sized ways. I realized home was in San Diego, home was at Princeton, home was in Albany. Home is kind, open people, their talk and good, warm food. Becca Foresman is a sophomore from Del Mar, Calif. She can be reached at foresman@princeton.edu.