by Susan Raffo (originally published at The Bilerico Project)
Growing up, it was one of the holidays where we gathered together at my great-grandmother's house. Piles of aunts and uncles, cousins and people whose names I could never remember showed up with plates piled high with food. Turkey and dressing. Green beans and candied yams. That red jelly in a can that was supposed to be made of cranberries. Black olives. Pumpkin pie. Apple pie. And then cold turkey sandwiches later in the day.