Ghosts of Thanksgiving past

[Thanksgiving table*]

Every country has at least one annual event that transcends differences in religion, generation, race and background. For the United States, in my opinion at least, that occasion is Thanksgiving, a time when extended families make great effort to get together and enjoy each other’s company.

There is a universal element in Thanksgiving. People of all stripes and colors get together and eat the same menu, with small variations. Even when alternatives are far tastier (my brother persuaded my mother to make paella one year), it is somehow sacrilegious to not eat turkey this Thursday. Even more notable, three generations of a family strive to sit together and talk, not a common occurrence in the United States. The table is set for a royal feast, with all the finest pieces being used. For the children, it is a wonderful time to play with cousins without close parental supervision. Thanksgiving is above all a family occasion.

Of course, each family has its own traditions. In my family, there was a children’s table, with the symbolic presence of my great uncle who, due to a stroke, could barely speak. Various relatives brought their specialties, including my aunt who made the incredible apple and pumpkin pies. As we grew older, we children were allowed to have gin and topic as we munched on homemade guacamole. I would play hearts, the card game, with aunt and great aunt, who would curse to the great shame of her daughter and our amusement. My father would always read the Art Buchwald column on explaining Thanksgiving to the French, still a classic. Whether we children were unaware or did not care, the adults would quietly criticize each other despite their best efforts to keep their mouths shut. I think we found their remarks irrelevant and amusing. Who cares if a certain aunt does not know how to dress properly? My cousin and I would play piano, she far better as she was much more serious than I and still is. It was a special day.

I wish I had a picture to show you of those occasions. However, this is a Thanksgiving past, before the time of cell phones and, more importantly, an awareness of the importance of taking pictures on such occasion. I believe there almost everybody there has a sense that this event was a given, an occasion that would happen every year, year in, year out, and somehow exempt from the effects of time.

Alas, nothing stops time, not even Thanksgiving. The generation of my grandparents has long gone to the grave. Of my parents’ generation, only my mother (96 years old) is alive but no longer capable of preparing a feast for 4 people, let along 20+. As for the children, alas, we have drifted, geographically and/or emotionally. Some of us belong to our adopted families. I have not lived in the US for some 35 years now nor celebrated Thanksgiving in that period.

Unlike in Dickens’ book, in my case, there is no ghost of Thanksgiving present. My brother will celebrate the holiday with this wife’s family. I am not sure that I will remember that Thanksgiving is Thursday at all as there is no hint of the holiday in Israel, especially with the war going on. My mother will be alone. I do share and concur with her comment: she can live without celebrating Thanksgiving because her Thanksgivings were so wonderful. So, ghosts of Thanksgiving past are loyal friends.

To those celebrating the holiday Thursday , treasure the day even if the food is a bit heavy and the family is a bit annoying. The memories are priceless.

* Picture captions help the blind fully access the Internet.

Picture credit

Ghost guest writer

Thanksgiving is a family holiday.  Each family has its unique transitions, whether special spins of tranditional food or quaint customs.  In my case, since my father was a journalist for many years of his life, he always brought up the following column by Art Buchwald, who wrote daily for the Washingon Post until his death in 2007. It was written in 1952 and reprinted every year when he was alive.  So, as a tribute to him, my father, good humor and fine writing, I present “Le Grand Thanksgiving” by Art Buchwald:

This confidential column was leaked to me by a high government official in the Plymouth colony on the condition that I not reveal his name.

One of our most important holidays is Thanksgiving Day, known in France as le Jour de Merci Donnant.

Le Jour de Merci Donnant was first started by a group of Pilgrims (Pèlerins) who fled from l'Angleterre before the McCarran Act to found a colony in the New World (le Nouveau Monde) where they could shoot Indians (les Peaux-Rouges) and eat turkey (dinde) to their hearts' content.

They landed at a place called Plymouth (now a famous voiture Américaine) in a wooden sailing ship called the Mayflower (or Fleur de Mai ) in 1620. But while the Pèlerins were killing the dindes, the Peaux-Rouges were killing the Pèlerins, and there were several hard winters ahead for both of them. The only way the Peaux-Rouges helped the Pelerins was when they taught them to grow corn (mais). The reason they did this was because they liked corn with their Pèlerins.

In 1623, after another harsh year, the Pèlerins' crops were so good that they decided to have a celebration and give thanks because more mais was raised by the Pèlerins than Pèlerins were killed by Peaux-Rouges.

Every year on the Jour de Merci Donnant, parents tell their children an amusing story about the first celebration.

It concerns a brave capitaine named Miles Standish (known in France as Kilometres Deboutish) and a young, shy lieutenant named Jean Alden. Both of them were in love with a flower of Plymouth called Priscilla Mullens (no translation). The vieux capitaine said to the jeune lieutenant :

"Go to the damsel Priscilla ( allez très vite chez Priscilla), the loveliest maiden of Plymouth ( la plus jolie demoiselle de Plymouth). Say that a blunt old captain, a man not of words but of action ( un vieux Fanfan la Tulipe ), offers his hand and his heart, the hand and heart of a soldier. Not in these words, you know, but this, in short, is my meaning.

"I am a maker of war ( je suis un fabricant de la guerre ) and not a maker of phrases. You, bred as a scholar ( vous, qui t'es pain comme un étudiant ), can say it in elegant language, such as you read in your books of the pleadings and wooings of lovers, such as you think best adapted to win the heart of the maiden."

Although Jean was fit to be tied ( convenable très emballé ), friendship prevailed over love and he went to his duty. But instead of using elegant language, he blurted out his mission. Priscilla was muted with amazement and sorrow ( rendue muette par l'étonnement et la tristesse ).

At length she exclaimed, interrupting the ominous silence: "If the great captain of Plymouth is so very eager to wed me, why does he not come himself and take the trouble to woo me?" ( Où est-il, le vieux Kilometres? Pourquoi ne vient-il pas auprès de moi pour tenter sa chance ?)

Jean said that Kilometres Deboutish was very busy and didn't have time for those things. He staggered on, telling what a wonderful husband Kilometres would make. Finally Priscilla arched her eyebrows and said in a tremulous voice, "Why don't you speak for yourself, Jean?" ( Chacun a son gout. )

And so, on the fourth Thursday in November, American families sit down at a large table brimming with tasty dishes and, for the only time during the year, eat better than the French do.

No one can deny that le Jour de Merci Donnant is a grande fête and no matter how well fed American families are, they never forget to give thanks to Kilometres Deboutish, who made this great day possible.

http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2005/11/23/AR2005112302056.html 

Thank you, Mr. Buchwald.

P.S. Come back, we need your sense of humor more than ever.

A Feast Culture

Feasting or festive eating with friends if you so prefer is a universal human pleasure.  People enjoy communal meals throughout the world, no matter how rich or poor the country, family, or land is. Of course, the food on the menu is clearly localized, generally including native and highly-valued delicacies. A more subtle difference between feasts is their styles.

For example, an American feast, such as Thanksgiving, is primarily judged on the size of the food: the bigger, the better.  People brag about the weight of the Turkey, the number of pans of sweet potatoes, and the diameter of the apple pies.  Of course, the settings, including the plates, knife, fork, spoons, and napkins, should be as festive as possible, ideally with some Thanksgiving motif.  People sit properly in their chairs and stuff their face elegantly so to speak.  (I would add that they watch the Detroit Lions lose a football game, but that is not necessarily true now).

A French feast is a different scene entirely.  Not only are the settings fancy, but the food is measured by its fanciness and creativeness, defined as putting together foods and tastes that I never thought would go together.  What is lacking in quantity is easily made up in esthetics and time.  Enjoying food involves all of the senses, taking one’s time to appreciate each culinary work of art.  Of course, wine provides the transition from hors d’oeuvre to soup to main dish to salad to bread and cheese to desert to coffee.  The ideal meal is signaled by the fact that the diner cannot decide what the piece de resistance of the occasion was.  Also, curiously, although the meal took over two hours and involved a respectable amount of food, the diner is neither hungry nor stuffed, but instead just right. (Somehow, on the way home, the guests discuss at which restaurant they will eat the next day.)

Israeli feasts, being Israeli, reflect the ethnic background of the host.  Yekke (German) and mainland French families will be more formal while Sephardic families tend to be more relaxed.  The key is the variety of foods.  An example of this is the issue of salads.  Israeli weddings and picnics are measured by the number of salads to choose from.  The term “too much” is mentioned but not meant seriously:  there is no such thing as too many salads.  Anything that goes with Pita bread is fine.  Pickled, garlicky, salty, hot and sweet, red, green, white and yellow, variety is the spice of life.  Of course, the salads, a meal in themselves, are followed by barbeque, preferably steak.  It would appear eating chicken is a sign of poverty.  In house parties, the emphasis is on the variety of main dishes: meat, chicken, and fish (for those fish lovers out there).  Cakes of all kinds are the preferred dessert as compared to pies.

So, there are numerous manners of overeating.  Feel free to share any local feast customs.