Soft Rolls & a Soft Launch

I spent Thanksgiving alone this year, which may sound sad unless you’ve lived enough life to know the difference between loneliness and peace. Today was peace. Maybe even a little freedom, to boot.

Score.

I love both the pleasure of my own company and the company of others in fairly equal measure. Still—there is nothing quite like the former, especially when a devoted home cook like myself is craving two things:

• the delicious nostalgia of a traditional Thanksgiving meal

• a luxurious, solitary chance to fool around with those recipes, my table-scaping, and other holiday joys

The result? A full feast, cooked by me, for me. No audience. No commentary. No family performance art. Just a woman in her (early, thank you very much!) fifties making a Thanksgiving dinner because she wanted the flavors, the ritual, and the smell of turkey roasting in this incredible, little bachelorette pad she lives in—quite happily—by herself.

And honestly? It was kind of fucking glorious.

OK — Maybe even more than kind of.

The table was more decorated than necessary for one person, which was likely the entire point. I set it exactly how I wanted: “maximalist” and maybe even at design odds with itself — paisley, florals, pumpkins, little red cocottes filled with sides. A table that might’ve looked over-the-top for guests (or not), but was just right for me this year.

Even so, there’s at least one beloved person it absolutely would have looked over-the-top to: my best friend and Dad, Joe. Our approach-based differences aside… Joe was a helluva family holiday cook, and we spent many happy years—several of us together—benefitting from that.

Dad died ten years ago this December. It hardly seems possible. That it’s been that long. That it will stretch out even and ever longer, across time, while still feeling like no real time has passed at all.

Among his countless great qualities, Joe loved him a “lil bun sammich.” Especially around those roast-meat, soft-roll holidays. That man could take leftover turkey, a soft roll, and a smear of mayonnaise (or maybe even ketchup—yikes) and build an entire “this is the reason I cooked all this damn food and invited y’all over” sort of mood around it.

Joe wasn’t fancy. Joe wasn’t picky. Joe wasn’t dramatic.

Dad appreciated good food in simple combinations—the kind of man who collected small pleasures quietly. The kind of man whose funeral, ten years ago this December, was so full that dozens of fellow firefighters lined the aisle in dress uniforms, serving proudly, tearfully as his bereav honor guard. The kind of man who deserved a better ending than he got—end-stage cancer being a swift and vicious partner—but who was loved enough, and loved so deeply, that a great many people showed up.

And at Dad’s post-funeral gathering? Of course there were lil bun sammiches.

Soft little rolls you could tear apart and fill with meat and memories and whatever else you needed to get through that terrible, terrible day.

Lil bun sammiches as comfort food.

Lil bun sammiches as grief food.

Lil bun sammiches because Joe loved them.

And lil bun sammiches because we all sure loved us some Joe.

A couple days ago, I made a sourdough version—Joe’s Lil Bun Sammich Rolls—because I sometimes need that sort of ritual now, in all of its many forms. And because, though it’s not true every year, I especially needed it this year.

Often—

Rolls matter.

Small comforts matter.

Food built from memory matters.

Being happily solo this year, I cooked up a storm: bone-in turkey breast, cornbread and sourdough focaccia stuffing, Yukon Gold mashed potatoes, roasted carrots and Brussels sprouts, roasting-pan gravy, fresh cranberry–blood orange sauce, and of course—those rolls. I plated it all from that highly adorned table like I was serving someone I loved.

Because I was.

Myself.

And also my Dad, Joe.

It seems certain enough I was also serving the part of me that spent too long letting other people dictate the emotional temperature of every holiday. But we’ll get to all that, reader-friend, some other soonish time.

In the meantime—

This is the soft-roll, soft-launch version of what our shared community, mouthy., is going to be: food, lineage, grief, humor, inheritance, truth-telling, and unapologetic joy wherever I - wherever we - can find it.

It’s not always going to be pretty. It’s unlikely to be polished or light all the time. It’s not performative wellness. It’s a little sharper than that. A little more real. And a helluva lot more centered on what authentic healing looks, taste, smells and feels like.

And today, as I glance resignedly at the dishes still waiting for their turn, and with far more enthusiasm at the lil bun sammiches awaiting me, some truths feel simple:

I made a feast for myself.

I ate it with complete satisfaction.

And Joe’s rolls turned out beautifully.

Not perfect.

Still close enough to feel like a small act of devotion.

Given that lack of culinary perfection, I’ve already rewritten the recipe and plan to tackle it at least one more time this holiday season. Trust and believe—when I get closer to roll nirvana, I’ll share it.

Today, I’m just sharing this:

I fed myself well, and it mattered. I hope you have and will do the same. And here—we’ll figure out how to keep doing that.

Together.