I don't know if you know this but the English don’t
celebrate Thanksgiving. O. Henry loves
to tell people: it is a “purely American” holiday. In England, where I was brought up, we
celebrate Harvest Festival. Of
course, we’ve given thanks for successful harvests since pagan times – the odd
virgin sacrifice to the corn spirits, you know – but the tradition of Harvest Festival as it is today began in 1843 when Reverend Robert Hawker invited
parishioners to a special thanksgiving service at his church in Morwenstow in Cornwall. I’ve always thought he probably stood on the
coast at Lands End in Cornwall, (the
furthest south-west you can go in England),
looked over the Atlantic Ocean where he saw
Americans celebrating their own Thanksgiving and said, “It’s not fair. Why haven't the English got a similar
tradition? I shall invent one!” And he
did. England is like a spoilt child; if
someone else has something, it has to have one too. And if it can’t find one of its own, it’ll
take yours!
Nowadays, on a Saturday afternoon in late September, there
are Harvest Fayres held in church halls all
over the country at which people sell local fruits and vegetables;
home-made bread, cakes and cookies; and jams and jellies made from local fruit. There are corn dolly displays and there's usually
someone there to show you how to make one. The kids play old-fashioned games and
everyone brings tinned food to give to the poor. I noticed when I was little that many of the
tins were rusty as if folks were clearing out old cans from their pantries; or
they contained things like beets, and I used to think, “I bet poor people don’t
like beets any more than I do!” I like
them now but hated them then.
At the Sunday service after the fair, people decorate their
churches with vases of autumn leaves, berries and flowers. Tables are set up to hold all the donated food. Then everyone give thanks by singing and
praying. After the service, it's all packaged
up and given to local people in need.
But there’s no family at Harvest Festival, no gathering of the clans. That’s one of the purposes of your
Thanksgiving. Christmas Day is our gathering of the clans. That’s when we have turkey, sage-and-onion stuffing,
roast potatoes, Yorkshire pudding, Brussels sprouts, garden peas, plum pudding,
brandy butter, fruit cake, mince pies, clotted cream, and way, way, way too
much sherry.
Having lived in America for 20 years, I think I now
know the real purpose of Thanksgiving. FOOTBALL! I doubt that Squanto and the pilgrims had a
big screen TV when they gathered together all those years ago, but I’m sure
someone threw an oval-shaped squash that someone else caught. I’m sure they looked at each other and said,
“This is how we should give thanks. We
shall call it football!”
But I’m getting ahead of myself. My first connection with Thanksgiving was
when I was living in Dubai in the United Arab Emirates
in 1990. I was working for an American irrigation
company which was partnered in the same building with an English landscaping company. These companies worked together and found
fame in 2 ways: (a) they built the first all-grass golf course in the middle of
the desert and (b) they were accused of cheating Sheikh Mohamed, the ruler of Dubai, out of millions of
dollars. I was there for the former and
had thankfully left before the latter.
As we approached the third week of November that year, the
American employees began to grumble. They
were upset because all other American expatriates in Dubai were being given a particular Thursday
off work. Apparently it was even more
important than usual because we were in the middle of the first Gulf War,
otherwise known as “Desert Shield,” and emotions were running high. The “Powers That Be” in our two companies
said that it wasn’t fair for the Americans to get a day off and not the English
so the answer was “no”. I'm embarrassed to say, the
English folks were rather happy about this.
It could’ve been called Thanksgiving
Envy.
In 1991, the same thing happened…except that this time, the “Powers
That Be” decided that Thanksgiving was such a big deal for the Americans,
bigger even than Christmas, they would
get the day. Well, the English were
outraged. It’s not fair they said. What about us? Why should they get the day off and not
us? But that’s what happened. The English held down the fort and Thanksgiving
was now recognized by all Americans in Dubai. Thanksgiving
Envy…
The following year, I left Dubai
shortly before Thanksgiving and found myself in Austin,
state capital of Texas. I was visiting a friend on my way to Los Angeles to become a film
actress. I met up with a nice group of
people, one of whom invited me to her family home for the Thanksgiving holiday. AT LAST, I was going to celebrate Thanksgiving! I knew it was an honor; I treated it as
such. I dressed up in all my finery and
put on my best English manners. My new
friend's family lived in north Austin which I
was assured was absolutely the best area of Austin
to live; she could hardly bring herself to talk about the riff-raff that lived in south Austin.
The extended family I met that day was delightful. They had the biggest telly I’d ever seen, like
a movie screen. Everyone seems to have one
now but in 1992, this must’ve been one of the first. All the comfy chairs were lined up to face it
and all the men were seated really
close to the screen watching what looked to me like a kind of rugby match.
Everyone in the family had brought something to the table,
potluck style. After lots of hugs and
kisses, we gathered around to fill our plates.
Now Americans have a long tradition of mocking the English for our
eating habits and every one of you seems to have a story to tell about the
ghastly food you’ve been served in my country.
I know: steak and kidney pie, blood pudding, jellied eels, spotted dick. But I have to say, I didn’t know what to make
of everything I saw on the table that day.
Of course I recognized the turkey.
This had been smoked which was new to me, but I recognized the shape. I recognized the mashed potatoes. But there all recognition ended.
What’s that green, mushy stuff with the bits in it and the
grey sauce? Green bean casserole. Oh.
What’s the grey sauce made of? Mushroom soup. Oh.
What’s the yellow, squishy stuff with orange stretchy
strings on it? Squash au gratin. Oh.
What are the orange stretchy strings? Pepper-jack cheese. Oh.
What’s that orange mashed-up stuff with pink goo on it? Candied yams.
Oh.
What’s the pink gooey stuff?
Marshmallows. Oh.
Where are the vegetables?
Those are the vegetables. Oh.
There was cornbread stuffing with funny lumps which turned
out to be oysters. There was cranberry
sauce shaped like a can. There was
giblet gravy. I served myself turkey and
mashed potatoes with little-bitty spoons full of each vegetable. It was certainly the most colorful
celebration meal I’d ever eaten...and actually very tasty...but I was in culture shock!
Then came the pies. Mm,
pies! I’ve never seen so many pies: pumpkin,
pecan, coconut cream, chocolate, key lime, apple, blueberry, peach. In fact, if I recall correctly, there were
enough pies for everyone at the party to have a pie of his or her very
own. I had to resist the urge to start a
pie-fight.
Following the food, especially the pies, I lay slumped on an
easy chair prepared to vegetate in front of the giant TV as folks always do on
Holidays. Then I learned to my horror I
was being taken to the college football game at the Texas Memorial Stadium. So I have to tell you that I didn’t know what
an "UT" was; I didn’t know what an Aggie was, and I thought football
was soccer…but we won’t go into that! After
20 years in Austin, I now know the significance
of the Thanksgiving football game between the University of Texas
and A&M. I also know how lucky I was
to be attending the game itself when everyone else had to watch it on the
big-screen TV.
Back in 1992, the big game was held on Thanksgiving
Day. For reasons unbeknownst to me, this
was changed to the day after Thanksgiving.
And then it was changed back. Now
it's not going to happen at all because of some ghastly conference thingy. Anyway, that year, I had the treat of joining
a large party at the sporting event of the season.
It was particularly cold that afternoon. A blue norther had blown through; the sky was
blue, the sun shone but it didn’t get above freezing all day so we dressed very
warmly. We had nosebleed seats which
means we were so high up, the people in the blimp were smiling and waving at us. This was the point at which I found I’d
forgotten my glasses. Added to the fact
that I’d had several glasses of wine at lunch, and that my buddy had provided
her guests with plastic flasks filled with the liquor of their choice (mine was
gin) I could barely see the football
field, let alone the players. I
could just about discern the difference between the two team colors though for
the life of me, I had no idea which team I was supposed to be supporting. My friend taught me a hand signal I should use
every time she elbowed me. And every
time I held up my hands with that signal, I was to shout, “Hook ‘em, Horns,
Hook ‘em!” This I did, with gusto.
I’m ashamed to say that I have no memory of the game itself,
nor do I remember the score though I think UT won. What I do remember is getting lost on the way
back from the restrooms. Let me give you
some advice, if I may. Never, ever go to
the restrooms in a football stadium just before the game ends, particularly if
you’re unfamiliar with the stadium. I
was actually sitting on the loo when
the cheering rose to that crescendo which tells you that play is over. Texas Memorial Stadium at that time held over
75,000 people and it was full that day. When
I came out of the Ladies’, there were thousands of people swarming past like
ants and of course I didn’t know where I was or where I was going. At one point, I got swept into the current
and had to spin myself out like a top.
I cowered against the wall like a lost puppy and
waited. I didn’t know what else to
do. Cell-phones weren’t common then; I
certainly didn’t have one. Eventually,
as the crowds thinned, I heard a distant voice with a broad Texas accent calling, “Bernadette.” “Help!” I shouted, “I'm over here.” Eventually a tall, shadowy figure appeared in
the tunnel ahead of me, like Red Adair, “C'mon, little lady” he said. I nearly sobbed. If it hadn’t been for that extremely
loud-voiced cowboy, one of my new-found friends, I’d probably still be there
now.
I’ve never been to another live football game though my
American ex-husband is a great supporter and I’ve sat through hundreds of games of TV. However, I have cooked several Thanksgiving
dinners of my own. I’ve also cooked English-style
turkey dinners. My ex-mother-in-law won’t
eat my roast potatoes. Mind you, she’s
from Louisiana
and she complains every time she’s served potatoes in any shape or form since
she believes the only real carbohydrate is rice. Vive la
difference, I say, because my stepsons love my roast potatoes and they love
my sage-and-onion stuffing and they love my Yorkshire pudding. They’ve given my Brussels sprouts a try and once or twice
actually swallowed a couple by accident.
I have made my own version of green bean casserole, I’ve even made
squash au gratin and I’m a huge fan of pies, “Hook ‘em, pies, hook ‘em”. But I have never made, and I have no
intention of ever making, candied yams. I
believe there is something profoundly wrong with using pink marshmallows in
cooking. And I’m sure that Squanto would
agree.
