Thanksgiving thoughts

Things are winding down in the halls of high-tech Seattle in preparation for Thanksgiving. Yesterday there was a flurry of “what grandiose menu are you preparing for the hordes on Thursday?” emails on a couple of the distribution groups I subscribe to. Let me just say that, while I’m no slouch in the kitchen, I just felt very small in the face of some of these displays.

This year it’ll just be the Stealth Cat & myself, so a roasted chicken, a bottle of Roederer & some other stuff. But I got to thinking about some recent Thanksgivings, & even though I haven’t yet opened the bubbly I’m still going to write up a couple.

One was in Britain—the American Church in London puts on a Thanksgiving service at St. Paul’s. I went my third year there. These days you have to pass through security, which just seems wrong, but it’s worth the tsuris to join other ex-pats to attend a service dedicated to the quintessentially American holiday, to hear those hymns echoing through the marble sanctuary.

It did seem appropriate that such a service be held in that cathedral. Following World War II the Brits dedicated the rebuilt east side to the US forces who joined the fight against Nazism. Don’t know how many others thought about it, but it wasn’t lost on me that, but for American blood & treasure, services there might have been held auf Deutsch.

The chaplain (Navy) from the U.S. Embassy gave the sermon—if you can call it that—the year I went. I say that because I don’t recall a lot of thankfulness stuff; he was guiding new ex-pats through the upcoming Christmas season in Britain. The part that stands out was him warning them that they should expect to be offered several dozen mince pies (really little tarts—maybe three inches in diameter) through the end of December, “none of them accompanied by a fork.”

& he was right. The Brits have a different idea of “pie” than we do. Theirs are small & hand-held. (Wonder what they make of “pie charts”?)

With that in mind, a couple of years ago an English friend of mine came over in early November. I decided, instead of the usual get-together I throw for her visits, that this time I’d introduce her to Thanksgiving. I invited a few other friends, so there would be the requisite critical mass of humans, noise & confusion, & planned out the Traditional Thanksgiving Menu.

There was roasted turkey (brined), with my great-grandmother’s marjoram stuffing, garlic mashed potatoes, squash, cranberry relish (not that nasty jellied abomination; homemade in my little Cuisinart), rolls & red & white wine—after the Roederer to start. (I’m guessing you’re seeing a pattern here.)

I don’t eat or make gravy, so one of the guests took that on. I did make both pumpkin & pecan pies even though I don’t eat those either (pecan pie sends me into insulin shock & don’t even get me started on pumpkin pie). I know that for the true Amurrican experience I should have had Cool-Whip with the pies, & should have included the infamous green bean casserole with the mains. However, I never had that casserole until I had Christmas with a gentleman caller’s family about 15 years ago (his mother was a Russified Armenian who grew up in Teheran, but she really bought into the Better Homes & Gardens ideals of middle class cookery when she got here), so my story is that if it’s not part of MY heritage, I don’t have to make it.

Dunno why that casserole isn’t part of my upbringing; my mother was a huge proponent of that whole post-war convenience phenomenon that went up through about the 70s. When people reminisce about wonderful meals & Mom’s cookery, I just have nothing at all to say. I realized about a year ago that throughout my childhood I’d never seen at our table a vegetable on the hoof that hadn’t come from either a can or a frozen food package. There was actually an incident in a grocery store with my grandmother where she was about to get some dark green, well, greens, & I demanded to know what that stuff was. She informed me it was spinach. & I swear this is what I said, in my ten-year-old certitude about the world, “No that’s not! I know what spinach is like—it’s frozen, in blocks!”

So I’m not getting why that casserole didn’t come into play, as it’s nothing but canned beans, condensed cream of mushroom soup (both of which abounded in our pantry) & canned fried onion rings. But I only ever had it that one time in Tinton Falls, NJ, & I assure you I never have to have it again.

Well—back to the Thanksgiving in question. It was great. Meal came out terrific. Sink stopped up, so there was the traditional holiday plumbing emergency & I had to stack dishes up on the counter for a couple of days until I could get professional help.

But it was the epitome of this holiday: gathering with those you care about, sharing food & stories, listening to the 30th Anniversary Bob Dylan concert, forming a nucleus of affection that sustains you when you have to go back out into the world. (In this case—all that shopping.) It was, in fact, one of the best I can remember.

So tomorrow—if you’re in London, do try to make it to St. Paul’s. Service is at 1100; best be there by 1000. You're in for a truly memorable experience.

If not—I hope you have as happy a Thanksgiving as my friends & I did, no matter what your tradition.