Giving Thanks

Thanksgiving, for many of us, is the quietest of the holidays. No fireworks or parades, no wrapped presents or champagne toasts. It arrives with little fanfare, nestled in the golden hush of mid-October. In Canada, it’s the final statutory long weekend in a string that begins with Victoria Day in May—a gentle bookend to a season of sunlight and weekends away. And this year, I’m pleased to say we at Laywine’s are taking the rare and luxurious step of closing both Sunday, October 12 and Monday, October 13, giving our team two full days off in a row. Now that’s something to be thankful for.

Canadian Thanksgiving is often mistaken as merely the northern cousin of the American holiday—but it is its own thing, quieter in tone and deeper in roots. It shares more with ancient harvest festivals than it does with Black Friday blowouts or football marathons. There’s no Macy’s parade or shopping blitz, no televised feasts of sport. Just the soft thud of leaves underfoot and, perhaps, the smell of something roasting in the oven.

Our version of Thanksgiving owes its spirit to the land itself. It coincides with harvest celebrations that have existed for millennia—ceremonies of gratitude for the turning of the seasons, for bounty, for survival. And whether you offer thanks to the land, to the people who work it, or to some higher force entirely, the holiday remains a pause, a moment to recognize that life, like nature, moves in cycles: planting, growing, resting. Thanksgiving reminds us to rest.

Years ago—October 2021, to be precise—I found myself unexpectedly responsible for a Thanksgiving dinner. A dear friend, who had been battling pancreatic cancer, was staying with me for the weekend. On Saturday night, he mentioned offhandedly that he’d really like a proper turkey dinner. I muttered something about that being a tall order for the next day. I had no idea how to cook a turkey and, more to the point, where to even find one on short notice.

On Sunday morning, he appeared in the doorway holding a monstrous frozen bird, beaming. “I have to go,” he said. “See you later.”

And there I was. Staring down 16 pounds of poultry and 30 hours of sheer culinary panic.

I called every resource I had, including my daughter, who did her best to talk me out of this madness, and set out for the Sunday farmers’ market to at least find some decent vegetables. What followed was a chaotic, collaborative, utterly unexpected triumph: twelve people gathered around a table, and no one got food poisoning. Miraculous.

Late that evening, my friend pulled me aside and said, “Thank you. This may be my last Thanksgiving.” And it was. He died ten months later.

I’ve come to think of that dinner as one of the great privileges of my life. It was messy, unscripted, overwhelming—and completely worth it. Because ultimately, Thanksgiving is not about perfection. It’s about presence. About sitting across from people you care about, saying thank you—not just for the meal, but for the moment.

So this weekend, whether you’re roasting a turkey or simply enjoying a quiet walk in the fall air, I hope you find a moment to rest. To give thanks. And if you’re in Toronto and thinking of stopping by Laywine’s, please note: we’ll be closed on Sunday and Monday. The pens, the paper, the beautiful things—they’ll all be here when we return.

But for now, we’re taking the weekend to be with the people who matter most. That, too, is worth giving thanks for.

~Peter