Over the past decade, “Friendsgiving” has gone from a quirky portmanteau to a cultural ritual. Originally a Thanksgiving‑themed feast eaten with friends, it began as an alternative for young adults who couldn’t or didn’t want to go home for the holiday.
Early gatherings were informal potlucks, with each friend bringing a dish and testing new recipes. The term’s first online appearance was in 2007; yet the idea of a turkey dinner with one’s chosen family goes back to the counterculture meals that inspired Alice’s Restaurant.
Now I’m in my mid-40s, straddling the line between Gen X anarchism and Millennial zeal, and I’ve watched this grassroots tradition evolve from a scrappy potluck to a fully-curated event. Today, Friendsgiving is celebrated in urban lofts and suburban cul‑de‑sacs alike; people still share dishes, but the menus include gluten‑free stuffing, vegan roasts, craft cocktails and the infamous Tofurkey. Friendsgiving has matured alongside us, becoming a second celebration rather than a substitute for family. The dinner is popular in LGBTQ+ circles and for anyone who values community over familial obligation.
What makes Friendsgiving feel so vital is the freedom to shape a holiday around our actual, lived lives. In my 20s, I hosted my first Friendsgiving on thrifted chairs and a table found on the sidewalk. Two decades later, my living room is bigger, the playlist is on Spotify and the cookware costs more than my first car, but the spirit is the same. We pass dishes, share grievances and gratitude, and create space for people whose families are far away or way too fraught.
This tradition resonates because it recognizes that family isn’t just who one is born into. Friendsgiving offers an inclusive pause: a place where a woman in her 40s can toast to friends old and new, celebrate resilience and embrace the idea that sometimes the bonds that last are the ones we make ourselves.
Roe Warden is a Bay Area creative professional who makes a mean pie crust.
