Dear Cranberry Sauce,

Has it been a year already? I can’t help but feel guilty for falling out of touch. There have just been so many other recipes to make. Now that Thanksgiving is approaching again, I find myself getting nostalgic as I look back on our years together.

I remember my mother coaxing you right out of the can, ridges still visible on your sides, and the slurping noise as she slid you—an entire, neat cylinder—onto a small white porcelain plate for your presentation at the feast. She used a sterling silver server with a fleur-de-lis motif to cut your first few perfectly round slices as a way to get the ball rolling so guests could help themselves from there. Some years, she asked me to put you on the serving plate, and I took my responsibility earnestly, swelling with pride for contributing to the meal. I thought you the pinnacle of sophistication—a grown-up version of Jell-O.

Then I went to college. As I learned about linear algebra and Proust, I discovered you had a life outside of that can, that you were made from an actual berry. I told my mom I wanted “real” cranberry sauce when I returned home for Thanksgiving. She assumed I meant the canned version of you with whole berries instead of a smooth jelly and volunteered to pick some up at the grocery.

Did she not know where you came from either?

“Not a can,” I explained, half questioning it myself. “Cranberries come in bags? In the produce section?”

She replied skeptically that she’d see what she could find. When I got home that holiday, she showed me a clear plastic bag of perfectly round berries in varying shades of burgundy and asked if it was what I wanted.

Was it? I tried to hide my apprehension.

I duly followed the instructions printed on the bag. My mother and I marveled as you took shape, your ancestors—the cranberries—bubbling and bursting in the boiling water and sugar mixture, transforming from barely edible spheres into you, a jellied delight. True alchemy. My mother paused, squeezing my shoulder and smiling, impressed, before continuing to fuss about the kitchen opening cans of candied yams and creamed corn. I could have burst like one of the cranberries who made you. I felt so fancy serving the real deal. You elevated our table. This would be the year my family learned to love the real you in all your glory.

But there were so many leftovers.

Everyone piled on the turkey, stuffing, and mashed potatoes. But as you got passed around, only a few guests took a demure spoonful of you just to be polite. Others didn’t even bother taking you at all. I don’t know which was worse: seeing you relegated to the perimeter of a plate so as not to touch the other dishes or unceremoniously passed to the next person without a moment’s deliberation. When it was time for seconds, guests simply brushed your serving bowl aside while trying to reach another dish.

I was crestfallen.

You were fresh and tart with a hint of sweetness. What wasn’t to like? I would not be overcome by my disappointment. Surely it was simply a matter of the recipe. Determined I could convince others to love you as I had, I experimented. There was the year I added orange liqueur for a touch of refined maturity. Another year I incorporated sour cream and horseradish to render a relish the color of bubble gum. I even went international, preparing a salsa with onion and peppers.

No matter the culinary stylings, there you’d be—a giant vat left after all the other leftovers were gone.

The years when you were my assignment to bring to Friendsgiving, everyone else got the glory of the bird or the decadence of desserts. I got you. No one oohed or aahed over you.

You remained a tiny spoonful on the plate, an obligatory sampling to appease our sense of tradition. No matter how much sugar, booze, or spice I used, dinner guests barely found your tangy flavor appealing. Your bitterness started to feel personal. It became my own.

I confess, that’s when I started to resent you.

No one cared that you were high in vitamin C, fiber, and antioxidants, that your sharpness brightened up the savory flavors, that you lifted other dishes up while asking for nothing in return. I saw you as the unsung hero of Thanksgiving, yet hardly anyone else seemed to think you deserved a place at the table.

I cut your serving portion in half to temper my disappointment. Still, there you were the next day, only a divot or two missing.

People have suggested that I try a cranberry cake or bread pudding in your stead. What cruelty. Haven’t you endured enough indignity at the table?

So what if you’re bitter? So is life sometimes.

I think Thanksgiving should be more than a day of gratitude for the good in life. I think we should also honor the hard times as we give thanks. Without dark, we would not have light. Without sour, we would not have sweet.

You serve as an important reminder of the hardships we must sometimes endure and the trials that make our blessings seem that much more meaningful. Maybe that’s why you have so many leftovers—to remind us that the hardships are never over, that life is better when we learn to accept the bitter.

Maybe you knew this all along.

Ah, you are wise, Cranberry Sauce.

I’ll see you on Thursday. I’m excited to reimagine you as a chutney this year. Looking forward to it!

With gratitude,

Julie

Julie Fiedler is a communications professional who spent many years moving around the country as a military spouse. Now semi-settled, this lover of roadside attractions, dog hugs, and song parodies enjoys reading and writing humorous personal essays.