It’s Thanksgiving and, although this is strictly an American holiday, I force all my friends in London to participate, lugging along covered dishes and uncorking too many bottles of wine. I have taught them the art of the sweet potato casserole, and they have shared with me the gift of Yorkshire puddings.
While typically spent with family, I argue my iteration of Thanksgiving is just as valid. Because for me, a 23-yearold single queer woman, family has been forged out of misfits, debt-ridden graduates and variously-identifying LGBT+ individuals.