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When the twins were little, we went on story vacations. We’d read a book and then go to the place, imagining the plot line unfolding while standing in the space.

But A Strong Sense of Place wrote about an idea that takes it to the next level: an audio story you can only hear if you’re in the place where it’s set. “To take part in this thrilling adventure, you need to visit Sweden and set off into the Swedish nature. This is the only place in the world where you can listen to the story.”

It’s a geo-restricted story that unlocks when you’re in the place. Think of the desire tourism boards could create, setting up geo-restricted stories, movies, and music that you need to be in the space to experience. You could change it year after year, creating new reasons to go back so you could hear the update.

I once wrote about playing a game like this. It’s a brilliant idea.

I love Erin McKeown’s substack (and music!). It always makes me think. A recent issue was about things they have never done, including a particular drink from 7-11. In their circle of friends, “Slurpee” came to mean something a person hadn’t done.

We all began to use the term “slurpee” for a common cultural thing that someone had never done. We had endless afternoons, sitting in the back of my truck carefully cultivating our personal slurpee lists. At the time, some of my slurpees included never having seen “star wars,” never having worn a bikini, and never having kissed a girl.

I usually think about “I’ve nevers” as things I’d like to do one day. As in, I’ve never been to Australia. The underlying message is that I’m thinking about it because I would like to do it. And I’ve thought of “I’ve nevers” as things I’m truly proud I’ve never done. Like… rob a bank. But I’ve never thought of “I’ve nevers” as this thing in between: Not a bad thing (robbing a bank) and not an aspiration (Australia), but just things I haven’t done and have no intention of doing, even if someone gave me the opportunity.

What are your Slurpees?

The Wolvog was about to submit a few college applications when the lights went out. Nothing was happening outside, weather-wise, so I assumed it was a glitch and the lights would be back on in a moment. At least, I hoped they would. I had soup bubbling on the stove.

But the lights didn’t come on, and the bubbles in the pot slowly stilled.

We sat in the living room, scrolling through Twitter, trying to figure out why we were spending the evening sitting around an electric lantern. It turned out that a plane flew into one of the transmission towers, knocking out power to over 100K people in the DC area. They had to secure the plan to the tower to rescue the people inside. It had to be terrifying to be 100 feet off the ground, unable to get out.

First responders rescued the people, and we got our power back before midnight. Our refrigerator thermometer was still within the food safety window, so the only thing lost was the soup. They canceled school yesterday because they were still restoring power to the area. What a bizarre evening.

Two weeks ago, one of my favourite authors — Anthony Horowitz — was doing a virtual reading at Politics and Prose, interviewed by Shari Lapena. Usually, I would never make room for a mid-day event. There was too much to do, and I didn’t need convincing — I had already purchased his latest book.

But my schedule opened up, and I could take a lunch break and log in.

For one hour, I had the pure joy of hearing an author I like speak in the middle of the day. I made tea and ate chocolate and took a freaking hour for myself. I may go another 365 days without doing something like this, but I accomplished it once this year, and I’m calling that a win.

[Melissa stands up, taps her fork against her glass, and clears her throat. The conversation around the table dies down. She looks at everyone at the table.]

We do this every year: Come together as a community and have a virtual meal before we scatter to our actual meals. Unless, that is, you do not celebrate Thanksgiving. But I hope that you’ll join the table for virtual food and company even if you don’t follow this tradition offline.

We’ve virtually eaten together since 2009. That’s when this tradition began. There are some people hurting at this table. For some people, this pre-meal is what gets them through their real meal later in the week. People have written that they’ve printed out this yearly post and comments and left the paper in their purse because it helped to have a tangible reminder that there were people out there who got it. Who weren’t going to ask them when they were going to hurry up and have children. Who weren’t going to cringe when someone spoke the name of a child they lost.

We are all so different. All of us. Around this table. But we have this one facet of our lives — and yes, even though it may be a big, overpowering one for you right now, it is only one facet of who you are — where we overlap: infertility or adoption or loss. And I am so thankful, so grateful, that I found all of you. Everyone needs a You-shaped space where they can be themselves. And that’s what I have here.

So every year, I ask people to bring a virtual dish to our meal. Place it in the comment section, explaining what you brought and why. And say anything else you need to say before sitting back down to enjoy the company. Update about where you are; your emotional state.

We’re an international group, hailing from countries all around the world. So while Thanksgiving is an American tradition, I hope that everyone around the world feels as if they can participate. (Especially our Canadian neighbours who celebrated Thanksgiving weeks ago.) I’d love for your dish to come from your culture or country. Don’t worry about the contents on the table clashing.

As always, I am bringing stuffing. It’s comfort food; mushy and soggy and warm.

So what did you bring and what do you want to say to the community?

And please, start eating as everyone is introducing their dish. We don’t want the food to get cold and there are so many of us at this table. Thank you so much for coming, and I’m going to carry the warmth of this meal with me for the rest of this week.