Thanksgiving is an American holiday. Thanksgiving celebrates the beginning of life in a new land. The seeds of friendship between two different cultures. The pilgrims and the Indians. The journey of the Mayflower. The need for one another. The helping hands of family and friends. The feast of giving thanks for where we have come from and what we have.
Or my symbolic journey of two cultures.
Thanksgiving is the dining room table. Family gathered. The blessing. The smell of turkey, stuffing, pumpkin pie, and the sound of football in the background. My brother Marty is eating the heads of the turkey cookies.
Celebrating Thanksgiving abroad is not the same.
During the first Thanksgiving I spent in France, we lived in Paris. A group of Americans I knew from working at the American Church in Paris had a dinner party. Everyone was in charge of bringing something for dinner. We knew it was going to be hard to find the necessary ingredients. I was in charge of the pumpkin pies. I had never made pumpkin pie. Canned pumpkins did not exist in France. I went to the market to buy a pumpkin. When I saw the pumpkin, it seemed to say, "Carve me, I am Halloween."
I took that heavy monster home. Cut it up, seeded it, simmered it, added fresh cream, brown sugar (not like brown sugar back home), the last of the maple syrup I had brought back in my suitcase, brown eggs, a tad of cognac, and spices. Then I whipped it until my hand nearly fell off and baked it.
It was delicious.
French Husband was confused. "Why do zee Americans eat salt and sugar at the same time?"
Instead of answering him, I groaned, "Eat it."
He did.
Then he said, "I prefer Chocolate."
The guests said my pies were delicious. I beamed, "I made it from a real pumpkin!"
French Husband leaned towards me and whispered, "Does fake Pump KEEN exist?"
The following year, at Thanksgiving, I was three weeks shy of delivering Chelsea.
I am five foot three. I gained over 50 pounds when I was pregnant. I looked like I had swallowed the turkey whole.
I went to the butcher two weeks before Thanksgiving to order a "Dinde (turkey in French)." Though we were vegetarians, I decided to prepare a turkey for Thanksgiving. When the butcher asked me what size I wanted in French, I froze. I did not have the right French words in my pocket to answer him. Flustered (like what type of person goes to order a turkey at a French butcher and doesn't have the correct vocabulary in their repertoire?) I pointed to my big belly and said, "Gros comme ca, " which in English translates to "Fat like this," though I thought I had said, "Big like this."
The butcher laughed and then chopped his big knife into the cutting board. I gulped.
Two weeks later, I went back to pick up the turkey. It was larger than a child. The butcher was proud, overly jolly, carrying the turkey around the counter because it was too large to hand it over to me.
The basket I brought was too small to carry the turkey home. The people in line at the butchers began to laugh when they saw it. I stood big as a cow, holding the cold-plucked-turkey-child on my pregnant belly. My hormones got the best of me as I cried in English, "I am a vegetarian who just wanted a normal Thanksgiving."
Nobody understood me.
Slowly, I carried the turkey home. The people on the street moved away as I walked by. My face was beet red; I huffed and puffed and swore I was going into labor. I climbed the four flights of stairs, wishing for an elevator. I dragged the turkey child into the kitchen. I then sat down on the floor next to the turkey.
An hour or so later, my French Husband came home. He spotted me with the turkey, fanning myself with a recipe I had copied from the American bookstore.
French Husband gasped, "What are you doing? What is it?"
"A turkey"
"But we don't eat turkey."
"I know."
"What is it doing here?"
"Thanksgiving. We eat turkey on Thanksgiving."
"We do?"
"No. But in America, we do."
"Oh. Do you miss America?"
"I miss home," I said, then hugged the turkey child.
"Are we going to eat it?"
"No. But I am going to cook it, and you will help me, and our friends will eat it."
"How many friends do we have?"
"Not enough. But what we don't eat, they can take home."
"In France, we do not give food to take home."
"Well, we are going to break that habit."
Each year, Thanksgiving has been an adventure in a new land. Happy and very Thankful. I don't want to tell you all my Thanksgiving stories today because I need to save them for future generations.
Notes:
Photos of my Mom's friend Holly's Country Home.
Leave a Reply