Thanksgiving Foraging

–A personal reflection and photos by Emma Medina-Castrejon, TTGM member, Photographer and content creator

Before the Feast: A Morning with the Land

The morning air bit sharp and cold—code blue for Delaware County—as we gathered on Thanksgiving morning. But surrounded by friends, or people who feel like friends, you forget the cold quickly. We were there for native persimmons, yes, but also for something harder to name: connection, purpose, a way of marking this day that felt truer to me than the traditional narrative we’re taught.

 

I don’t celebrate Thanksgiving in the conventional sense. I can’t separate it from the lies it was built on, from what was done to Native people. Every year on this day, my mind travels back to 2016—driving 1,600 miles to Standing Rock in North Dakota with my son, barely 18 then, the car packed with warm clothes donated by friends and community members in Media. We brought what we could to the reservation, our small gesture of solidarity in brutally cold weather, standing with water protectors who were defending their land and future.

So foraging on Thanksgiving morning felt appropriate. It felt like a way to honor the land, to learn from it, to receive what it offers with gratitude and respect.

Opening Gift

We’d barely stepped into the forest when someone spotted movement—a flash of russet through the trees. “Fox!”

It was so far away, moving so quickly. I couldn’t really see it with my naked eye, just that blur of color and motion. My hands fumbled for my camera—the new one I’d recently invested in for work. Professional gear doesn’t come cheap, and acquiring it had meant sacrifice. But in that instant, as the fox came into sharp focus for a second through the viewfinder, I knew the investment was worth it.

The fox paused for just a heartbeat, then vanished back into the woods. I had the shot.

That moment set the tone for everything that followed. Nature showing up, fleeting and wild, rewarding those who come prepared.

The Persimmon Challenge

Ira led us deeper into the property with his characteristic steady presence. He’s the glue of our little foraging community, always generous with his time and knowledge, and I’m continually impressed by his persistence. It’s not easy to keep offering invitations, to keep welcoming whoever wants to join, especially when people are always busy, always pulled in a dozen directions. But Ira keeps showing up, keeps opening the door. That makes him such a gift to our community.

Native persimmons are always small—about the size of a cherry tomato—but what they lack in size they make up for in flavor when they’re perfectly ripe. The challenge was that they were clinging to thin branches high overhead, well out of reach.

But we came prepared. Out came the light sheets to spread beneath the trees, making it easier to spot the fallen fruit in the leaf litter. Out came the ropes and weights. And then… the attempts began.

Throw after throw, we tried to get the rope high enough to shake the branches. Some tosses went wildly off course. Some wrapped around entirely the wrong branch. Some didn’t go nearly high enough. It was hilarious, honestly—I kept thinking I should film a blooper reel. Every creative method came out, everyone took turns, and slowly, persimmon by persimmon, we gathered our harvest.

 

A Moment of Reflection

Standing there in the cold, working for each small fruit, something shifted in me. I found myself imagining what life would feel like if this were our only food source today.

Not as a thought experiment, but as a visceral feeling—the vulnerability of it, the skill required, the absolute dependence on knowing the land and the seasons.
It put everything in perspective. The patience required. The gratitude for each small success. The way you’d need community, because no one could do this alone.

It put everything in perspective. The patience required. The gratitude for each small success. The way you’d need community, because no one could do this alone.

Unexpected Treasures

Before heading back, we stumbled on deer bones scattered in the underbrush. Cindy’s face absolutely lit up. She creates tiles with found natural objects, and she was so excited, imagining what she’d make with them. These moments of discovery—the fox, the persimmons, the bones—felt like the forest offering gifts to those willing to show up and pay attention.

We shared the persimmons before heading home, each of us returning to our own Thanksgiving preparations, whatever form they took. The fruit was sweet and complex, worth every failed rope throw.

Gratitude, Redefined

This is how I want to spend Thanksgiving—in community, in curiosity, learning from the land rather than taking from it thoughtlessly. Honoring what’s here, what’s always been here, and the people who knew these plants and animals long before any of us arrived.

The morning gave me exactly what I needed: connection to place, to people, to a different way of being grateful. Nature reminding us she’s always watching, always teaching, if we’re willing to step into the cold and pay attention.

🍂🧡🦊

Emma Medina-Castrejon is a Delaware County-based photographer focused on nature, community, and connection. Follow her photography at @emmamedinacastrejon or learn more at EmmaMedinaCastrejon.com