History, in the retelling, tends to lose important details and context, substituting a few dramatic embellishments along the way. Take the first Thanksgiving story, for instance. Enshrined in school texts, the tale has been idealised to the point of disbelief. Even as an adolescent, I recall thinking, ‘This just doesn’t stack’. (Don’t get me started on the Bible). But no one wanted to hear my cynical take on the holidays, let alone on life. That’s what writing’s for 😉

When I was growing up, Thanksgiving was a big thing. An opportunity to spend time with family near and far, and to feast (and I mean feast!) on a smorgasbord of culinary delights that I could only hope would grace our usual dinner table now and again. My mother was an award-winning cook, albeit a stressful one (Get out of the kitchen!). Although she would never admit it, she delighted in impressing her guests – with food, wine, ambience and conversation … until someone was brave enough to bring up religion or politics. Prepare for battle!

My mother always seemed spent after the day. No wonder – she did virtually everything herself. Women tend to do that. They get sucked into an I can do everything and I can be everything to everyone mentality. Then they lose momentum and, coupled with existential fatigue and the hormonal havoc known as menopause, they get cranky. (But that’s another story.) I don’t recall my father doing much on Thanksgiving except making cocktails and carving the turkey. In his defence, these were different times, and segregated entertainment roles were the norm, unlike today’s tag team approach. Children didn’t get off the hook. We were paraded in front of the ‘big people’, expected to perform like trained monkeys (Play the piano! Sing for us! What’s the square root of pi?) Our job was to dress up, be polite and gracious and to not spill anything. My brothers and I usually managed 2 of the 3. Our reward: we were relegated to the kids’ table – usually a flimsy card table sans decorations … unless you count turkey-inspired paper plates.

As an expat living in Australia for nearly 35 years, these milestone days tend to take on even more significance, underlining time, distance and the inevitability of change. Attempts to replicate the holiday of one’s youth inevitably fall short, and brave new beginnings often miss the mark. The fact that Thanksgiving isn’t celebrated here meant that I was off the hook, from public expectations at least, when the kids were younger. (Show me a woman with three kids under four and three businesses who prepares a magnificent Thanksgiving feast, and I’ll show you a mental health diagnosis in the making.) But tradition is a powerful thing. 

The problem is: I’ve never cooked a turkey … on my own, at least. I’ve always had the good sense to do so in the context of a larger gathering, where a confident guest or two have taken responsibility for the bird (one even bringing it fully cooked to our house), leaving me to busy myself with sweet potato casserole, cranberry relish and the like. Even with a reduced workload, I’m still likely to forget about something in the oven. This year, in a particularly hectic (read: insane) Thanksgiving week, two questions have dominated: Thanksgiving dinner, yay or nay? And turkey or no turkey? Somehow, Thanksgiving without a turkey and all the trimmings doesn’t seem right. But I got over it.

How? I remembered the point of the day: To be grateful. Forget history. Forget nostalgia. Thanksgiving is about ‘giving thanks’ for the good things in our lives. It’s about being content with what we have, rather than wanting more. It’s about breaking bread (which I can’t even eat because I’m on Day 11 of Keto 🤦‍♀️) with those close to us. Boiled down to its essence, it’s a holiday for everyone. 

So today, our family and friends will come together for a Thanksgiving dinner of beef, chicken and fish (What the?). The reality is hardly any of our guests likes, let alone eats, turkey. The even bigger reality is that a decent size turkey takes up nearly all available space in my oven and I don’t trust myself on the barbecue. As for the myriad side dishes and salads, I’m doing most but have asked some guests to bring something. (A ‘pot luck’ Thanksgiving? My mother is turning in her grave). As for dessert, that’s what Costco is for! Do I feel guilty about any of this? Not one bit!

What else is on my mind? I’m trying to tick a few (writing) boxes before the holidays, where I hope to slow down and relax – without turkey – at the coast. Next year promises to be busy with my new picture book out in late February (more on that later) and travel of the work and personal kind. My young adult novel is getting closer to the finish line. Good thing, because I’m getting tired of running that race. (See earlier comment on existential fatigue, ha.)

I’d write more but I have to check my gratin potatoes and roast veggies. Happy Thanksgiving and bon appétit!