I’ve just returned from Thanksgiving festivities in Austin, where my son Vince and his fiancee Shannon hosted our entire immediate family for the grand event, including elaborate pre-game and post-game activities. Joining them at their little Oak Hill rancher were older brother H and his Boston-based family of four, including an adorable two-year-old and a three-month-old angel; his wife Maria’s mother, Maria Rosa, who divides her time between Miami and Ecuador; little sister Jane, currently working her heinie off at Columbia Journalism School in NYC, and the ol’ matriarch from Baltimore, yours truly. Wallace and Finn, two well-connected, East Coast-based dachshunds, flew in to join the host pup Mr. Cole E. Bear.

I started cooking pretty much the second I got there on Tuesday, working my way from braided challah and cornbread-for-the-stuffing through favorites like Laurie Colwin’s spinach-jalapeno casserole and Jim Shahin’s World’s Greatest Chutney to dishes associated with beloved dead people, such as the creamed pearl onions my mother used to love and a roasted vegetable medley the boys’ late father knew as Queen Yam. Vince ordered a giant smoked Greenberg turkey by mail, and also spatchcocked a chicken and cooked it jerk-style on the grill.

I will not bore you with the full agenda but will reveal that at the awards ceremony following the weekend, H and Maria got Most Luggage; Vince and Jane tied for Latest Bedtime/Most Tequila Shots; Maria Rosa got Miss Congeniality, the three-month-old took honors for Best and Cutest Baby Who Ever Lived, and her two-year-old brother won the Gratitude Cup by saying he is thankful “for nature.” Shannon received the Golden Paws, a special award for interspecies hospitality, and I got Kitchen MVP. I also won this stupid video game we play, Quiplash, for the first and probably last time ever. 

Now here’s the other Big Turkey. On one of our many journeys between Vince’s house and H’s AirBnb in the mammoth Chevy Tahoe rented for the occasion a question was posed: Why oh why was the New York Times running the ouster of Sam Altman as the top headline for days on end? Was it just a scheme to distract us from the war? How could it be this important?

This led to Maria Rosa asking more general questions about AI, H taking a shot at explaining it all, and my recounting a funny event I had been part of at the University of Baltimore during the recent “Ethics Week.” Billed as “MFA Faculty vs. Chat GPT,” it featured the four of us profs reading examples of our work alongside Chat GPT’s attempts to simulate or complete them. It wrote a new ending to Betsy Boyd’s bowling alley story, took a shot at finishing a chapter of Jane Delury’s novel “Hedge,” wrote an elegy for Prince in the manner of moi, and most thoroughly embarrassed itself trying to write a poem in the style of Steven Leyva. Here’s the first verse:

In the city’s pulsing heart, I stand,
Where dreams and shadows intertwine,
A tapestry of life’s grand design,
In the style of Steven Leyva, I’ll craft this rhyme.

Let me say that there is literally NOTHING in common between this quatrain and the poetry of Leyva. Let me also say that this contraption really loves the word “tapestry,” or at least believes that including the word tapestry in a piece of writing guarantees automatic literary cred, since it was used in all four examples. Basically, it boils down to this: The predictive technology it is based on makes it absolutely sure to generate one cliche after another, after another, after another. There is no heart that does not pulse, no shadow that does not loom. Also for sure is that it will say nothing that has not been said before.

The world of literature is safe!

When she got home, dear Maria asked ChatGPT 3.5 to summarize our holiday in the style of her revered mother-in-law, MW. Here’s what it wrote, uncut and unedited.

“Amidst the clatter of kitchen chaos and the comforting aroma of roasting turkey, our Thanksgiving unfolded like a well-worn family saga. Laughter echoed as relatives swapped tales, creating a patchwork of shared memories and newfound hilarity. The dining table, adorned with mismatched plates and a centerpiece of autumnal hues, served as the epicenter of gratitude. As we navigated the delicate dance between tradition and novelty, each dish became a chapter in our collective narrative. The warmth of familial bonds mingled with the savory flavors of homemade recipes, creating a tapestry of love that transcended the mere act of feasting. In the gentle glow of flickering candles and the hum of post-feast contentment, our Thanksgiving emerged as a testament to the enduring magic of togetherness.”

A tapestry of love! Of course! An epicenter of gratitude! If I ever use these phrases someone please shoot me immediately! Autumnal hues? Warm bonds mingling with savory flavors? At this point I was having a stroke. (By the way, the plates did match.)

But, said Maria… isn’t it kind of sweet?

Aw shucks. Here’s to the enduring magic of togetherness, long may its testaments emerge.

University of Baltimore Professor Marion Winik is the author of "The Big Book of the Dead,” “First Comes Love,” and several other books, and the host of The Weekly Reader on WYPR. Sign up for her...

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