KANDAHAR AIRFIELD, Afghanistan » For as long as I can remember, I spent every Thanksgiving sitting at the same brown wooden table.

The chairs, the menu and the guests varied over the years, but two things remained the same: I always sat at the brown wooden table and I was always surrounded by family.

Now, for the first time in my life, I’m not sitting at that brown wooden table with my family. I am sitting at a different brown, wooden table — or rather, mostly woodish desk.

There is a phone to my right at the edge of the desk. Three wide computer screens are in front of me; they shield me and make me slightly claustrophobic at the same time.

There are papers and notebooks and binders, all neatly stacked to my left. It’s like these items came out of my grandfather’s attic after five decades of storage and are caked with a fine, dustlike dirt that tells me more than anything: I’m not at home; I’m in Afghanistan, serving on a nine-month deploy- ment with the Hawaii Army National Guard.

As my family enjoys Thanksgiving meal, I am 141⁄2 time zones away.

The contrast between Hawaii and Kandahar Province is palpable. The bleak palette of browns and grays here are filtered by layers of Afghan dirt. There is nothing that compares to the vibrant green trees, purple mountains, yellow and orange leaves, and blue skies and oceans of my home.

The cold, dry air has left cracks and rashes on my skin, making me look 10 years older than when I left Hawaii. It’s so dissimilar to the soft, moist air I’m used to, heated by the sun and cooled by tradewinds.

And the smells — the number of smells here surpasses even the number of people on Kandahar Airfield (KAF), the hub of NATO’s forces in southern Afghanis-tan. One can’t truly describe the smells and their assault on the senses without violating several lines of decency.

Contrary to KAF, the memories of the smells of home associated with Thanksgiving Day are so wonderful they make the yearlong wait worthwhile.

The smell of the turkey, slowly crisping, under a thick coat of sweet butter, the smell of its juices seeping through the stuffing-filled cavity, dripping onto the pan, evaporating and releasing the sage, parsley, cranberries and apples into the air. I smell the turkey stock simmering with its bundle of onions, celery and herbs as it magically transforms into gravy. I catch the aroma of sweet potato casserole with raisins, cinnamon and brandy.

Unfortunately, I would experience none of these euphoria-inducing smells in Afghanistan.

There was a feeling of sadness, perhaps loneliness, as I woke up at 9 p.m. on Thanks- giving. I am the only soldier in the unit who works the overnight shift, and most of the holiday came and went while I slept.

But I decided that tonight I would treat myself to a BBQ chicken pizza. At least that would induce the familiar feeling of overindulgence followed by a denial of guilt.

As I sat down at my brown desk, resigned to the graveyard-shift fate that had been mine for the last 83 nights, an email caught my eye. It was not one of the normal, formal emails that I read through night after night. It was personal.

It came from a man I’ve known by many names: sometimes "Sir"; sometimes Capt. Hickman; and sometimes, in a room we share with another 117th soldier, where formalities sometimes go by the wayside, simply "Jeff."

He’s a friend. And on Thanksgiving, I would call him another name: Brother.

The email read simply: "Come over to the office! I got you Thanksgiving food!"

When I arrived at his office, I was surprised to see several of my fellow unit members still hard at work late into the night to get one final product out. And there, sitting on a brown table, were two Styrofoam boxes, one large and one small, that each read, "Souza."

I sat down and opened the big box. There was the requisite turkey, as moist as could be expected from the mass production line called the Niagara dining facility. There was corn and cranberry sauce, too, canned but still comforting. There was stuffing that was mostly wet bread — and I enjoyed every last bite, even licking the back of the plastic fork. There was a slice of ham, salty and satisfying.

After finishing, I quickly opened the small box. Inside was pumpkin pie and a slice of rich chocolate cheesecake. There was also a large piece of carrot cake.

"Major Juan said you’d love the carrot cake," Hickman said.

That comment made me pause. After all, it’s not every commander who remembers details about which of her soldiers like what kind of cake.

I ate and they worked. Brendan, Ashley, Steph and Jeff. We talked and we laughed.

The smells weren’t there, nor the sights and surely not the tastes. But there was an unmistakable familiarity as I left the office, feeling full, satisfied and connected.

That day, I ate my Thanksgiving meal at a brown table, surrounded by family.

Happy holidays, family.