How Friendsgiving helped me find belonging as an adult in the city
Anjana Pawa shares how she and her friends have made Thanksgiving their own while living in New York, away from family
For many young adults who live far from their families, Friendsgiving can feel like home.
Photo illustration by Ryan Quan
Words by Anjana Pawa
As a Thai Indian immigrant, my Thanksgivings were never quite like the ones you’d see on TV. There was nobody ceremonially carving a whole turkey, the mashed potatoes weren’t beige, and there definitely wasn’t a green bean casserole on the table. My family’s version of the holiday was different. It was less scripted, slightly more chaotic and musical, and endlessly flavorful. We celebrated a diasporic Thanksgiving—one in which the food was full of spice and the gratitude wasn’t just saved for one day of the calendar year.
Growing up, my family in Ohio relished the fact that we got a week off during the end of November, and prepared a gluttonous meal to mimic what our neighbors and communities were doing on the fourth Thursday of the month. Eating, for so many immigrants, isn’t just a means of survival, it is an entire culture, and it was exciting that there’s an entire day that’s built around it. But it felt different than a traditional American Thanksgiving. We’d make our own versions of the usual dishes: The turkey was tandooried, the corn was folded into pakoras rather than creamed in a dish, the salads were with Thai-style sauces rather than a Caesar dressing, and nobody had to figure out what “stuffing” actually is so someone could make it.
Our table spreads also didn’t look like the ones in magazines, and our rituals didn’t match the ones I saw in school plays. Yet, it was during these hybrid Thanksgivings that I learned something about the way immigrants make sense of foreign American traditions as new inhabitants of a place: we adapt what feels right, discard what doesn’t, and fill the gaps with flavors and sounds from home.
Take, for example, the salads that appeared on our table. My mother would make a Thai-style yum salad with traditional Thanksgiving sides, like green beans. The flavors woke up the whole room. She’d blanch the beans until they turned bright green and crisp, then toss them in a dressing of fish sauce, lime juice, a pinch of sugar, and a handful of chopped Thai bird's eye chiles that made our eyes water before we even took a bite. Crushed roasted peanuts and torn cilantro brought crunchiness and freshness to the dish. The whole mixture would sit for a few minutes, just long enough for the beans to soak in the dressing but still keep their snap. It fit in perfectly on our Thanksgiving table.
As I got older and eventually moved away from the safety and familiar chaos of my parents’ home—which was usually bustling with Bollywood music, clanking pots and pans, and the aroma of ginger-garlic paste—I realized that I’d have to carry these traditions forward myself, and with my chosen family. Recreating a “Friendsgiving” without my family and choosing to stay in a big city, rather than the comfort of a small town felt daunting—how do you replicate a holiday that was never traditional for you to begin with? But in New York, the task felt easier, and almost natural. New York City has a way of pulling many diverse communities into one shared orbit. The city and the people who live in it give you access to foods you’d otherwise need to board a 16-hour flight to taste. It lets you gather chosen family around a table that might be too small, with dishes that might not match, and celebrate a Friendsgiving that still makes you feel warm during the cold November chills—much like the ones I had in Ohio growing up.
These days, my Thanksgiving dinners involve friends and family from everywhere. Each person brings a dish from their childhood or their homeland. We eat food that makes us feel rooted, even in a city designed for us to constantly move. There’s something comforting about watching a table fill up with everyone’s reimagined versions of belonging, especially for many of us who have spent years navigating spaces where we felt othered.
An old friend of mine, who is also from Punjab, would always bring everyone’s favorite side of the night: corn pakoras, which is a tradition on cold or rainy November nights in the motherland. Instead of boiling and buttering corn on the cob, it’s chopped into kernels, battered and fried, giving it a completely new dimension of flavor. He mixes the corn with chickpea flour, chopped cilantro, minced onion, cumin seeds, and a bit of green chillies. Water is added until it becomes a thick batter that is spoonable to hold its shape. The liquidy batter is spooned, then dropped dollops into hot oil, where they puff into crunchy, golden fritters within a few minutes. They are the perfect appetizer, side dish, and sometimes, if you hover near the stove long enough, also the perfect pre-meal snack eaten straight from the paper towel that is absorbing the excess oil.
Friendsgiving, more than anything else, is a beautiful example of how easily traditions can shift when you let them. With my chosen family, the holiday became less about replicating the Thanksgivings of our childhoods and more about creating something new together. Everyone brings a dish, generally paired with a story, a memory, or a piece of where they came from. And as we have layered those histories side by side, we’ve built a version of the holiday that is flexible to our hectic lives, but still deeply communal. This time of year is a constant reminder that as immigrants, adapting is a skill that helps us to find home wherever we may land, with the table constantly expanding. And isn’t that enough to be thankful for?
Published on November 27, 2025
Words by Anjana Pawa
Anjana Pawa is a Brooklyn-based culture reporter who regularly covers music, entertainment and beauty. You can find her on Twitter at @apawawrites.