I was struck by the seasonal cover of this month’s Gourmet, even though it features the usual portrait of roasted turkey-on-platter. What is different about this Thanksgiving-themed cover is that the platter is accompanied by contemporary plates and serving pieces, and all are sitting atop an antique – probably 1920s vintage – gas stove.

I’ve long insisted that the Thanksgiving meal has a whole lot more to do with our need to reconnect with our past than with our enjoyment of the food itself. The Gourmet cover presents the meal as a collision of past and present, traditional and experimental, but it’s no accident that the largest component of the display is a museum-quality cook stove.

As I look at this appliance, I can easily imagine grandmothers and great-grandmothers delighting in its modern features, though fondly remembering holiday meals prepared on the wood stoves of bygone days.

Lurking behind every family’s Thanksgiving feast are the generations of Thanksgivings that have come before. When we participate in this highly ritualized meal, eating dishes that we prepare just once a year, many of them from recipes that have been handed down, we are participating in a communion not only with those seated around the table but also with those who sat there before.

There’s nothing profound in this observation, but this year the sentiment weighs more heavily, as I contemplate the holiday with a friend and family member both confronting grave and potentially terminal illnesses. This year in particular, the holiday’s enduring continuity in the face of our own transience has risen in importance for me.

During a recent conversation with my stepsister, I was impressed by her assumption that the family’s holiday meal would go on, even though the relative who generally coordinated the cooking for at least 20 people was about to have massive surgery. While we would not be able to do the cooking in his kitchen this year, we would be cooking nonetheless.

This was not optional. We had to do it.

As I thought about the affirmation contained in this plan, I was reminded of an earlier Thanksgiving, when participation in the holiday meal also signaled our faith that family ties transcend loss or the fear of loss.

My mother died somewhat suddenly in mid-November 27 years ago, and those left behind faced the holidays with predictable dread. The last thing I wanted to do was to participate in Thanksgiving and pretend that anything about it was OK with me. On top of everything else, my mother had been an exceptional cook, and the holiday meal had been one of her shining moments.

A beloved aunt graciously offered to have Thanksgiving at her house. The invitation came with self-conscious qualifiers that no one could cook a holiday meal like my mother, but the love evident in the gesture was so powerful.

Each bite of that meal was painful to swallow, but it was a crucial moment in our grief. We had to have that dinner.

All these years later, I can say that I have never tasted turkey gravy like my mother’s, and I will always miss it and her deeply. Yet, ironically, the knowledge that Thanksgiving can never be quite the same as it was in my childhood is not a reason for me to give it up. Rather, my need to share the traditions taught to me by people I love keeps me comfortably locked in the holiday ritual.