This Thanksgiving, something extraordinary is happening in our family. No, we’re not deep-frying the turkey, switching to tofu, or holding dinner in a yurt (though with our crew, I wouldn’t rule anything out someday). This year, my 11-year-old daughter, Elizabeth, is baking a pie. From scratch. All by herself.

A blueberry pie, to be exact.

Now, that might not sound like breaking news in most households. But in our family, this is a pretty big deal. Each Thanksgiving, we gather at my parents' home in Groton—an annual tradition where the house fills to capacity with family, friends, a rotating cast of cousins, and enough casseroles to survive a Vermont winter.

Thanksgiving in Groton is loud, warm, chaotic, and deeply rooted in tradition. There's always a battle over the wishbone, someone forgets the rolls in the oven, and there's a 100% chance someone’s going to bring a salad that no one touches. But more than anything, it’s about everyone bringing something to the table—literally and figuratively.

This year, for the first time, Elizabeth has decided she wants to contribute. Not by setting the table or folding napkins into turkeys, but by baking a real, honest-to-goodness pie.

And not just opening a store-bought crust and pouring in canned filling (which, for the record, is still a noble act of pie-making). No, she’s making the dough from scratch, blending the filling, and rolling it all out like she’s auditioning for a Food Network show called Kids Who Bake Better Than Their Dads.

The Wallet Is Mightier Than the Spatula
Of course, baking a pie also means going to the store for ingredients. And because Elizabeth is at that magical age where she wants complete independence—except when money is involved—guess who got the privilege of funding this culinary adventure?

That’s right. Me. I’m basically the executive producer of this pie. I fund it, I encourage the talent, and I’ve been warned to stay out of the kitchen unless something’s on fire.

I offered to help her shop, thinking it might be a sweet father-daughter moment. Turns out, she had a list, a plan, and no time for my commentary about why blueberries in November cost more than a used Subaru.

This is what being a parent of a tween is like: watching them learn things you don’t know, while slowly realizing your job is shifting from "teacher of all things" to "quiet facilitator with a credit card."

And honestly? It’s kind of wonderful.

More Than Just a Pie
What moves me most isn’t the baking—it’s what the baking represents.

Elizabeth started taking cooking classes this year through an afterschool program at school. She’s learning to measure, mix, and knead, but she’s also learning something more profound: how food connects us.

When she told me she wanted to bake a pie for Thanksgiving, it wasn’t just about showing off a new skill. It was about being part of something bigger. She sees how everyone in the family contributes. Grandma makes the stuffing. Uncle Aaron brings the football commentary (bless him). Aunt Alissa brings pies that could win blue ribbons. And now, Elizabeth wants in—not because she has to, but because she wants to.

She’s beginning to understand what Thanksgiving is really about. It’s not just food, or football, or falling asleep on the couch in a gravy coma. It’s about taking part. It’s about giving something of yourself to others. Even if it’s just a pie.

And it’s about learning that sharing food is a way of saying: “I was thinking of you.”

The Sweetest Slice
As I watch her work in the kitchen—focused, flour-dusted, determined not to ask for help—I realize this is one of those sneaky milestones you don’t expect. You know the big ones are coming: the first bike ride, the first day of school, the first eye-roll so strong it leaves you dizzy. But then there’s this—watching your kid make a pie—and it hits you in the chest with quiet force.

She’s growing up. She’s learning the joy of giving. And she’s doing it not because I told her to, but because she wants to. That’s the best part.

A Slice of Wisdom
So this Thanksgiving, as we all gather in Groton and pass dishes down long tables filled with familiar faces, I’ll be reaching for a slice of blueberry pie—not just because I want dessert, but because it’s a reminder.

A reminder that traditions evolve. That kids grow up when you’re not looking. That sometimes the best way to teach your kids is to get out of their way. And that even small acts—like baking a pie—can carry big meaning.

And maybe that’s the real quiet lesson tucked into the holiday bustle: when we give our kids room to join in—whether it’s stirring a bowl, setting a table, or tackling a pie from scratch—they start to see where they fit in the rhythm of family life. Little by little, they discover what these traditions mean, not because we explain it, but because we let them be part of it.

And maybe, just maybe, we’ll all learn to be a little more thankful for the small, sweet moments that show us what growing up—and giving—is all about.

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