By Nina Housman
Thanksgiving has always been one of my favorite holidays, along with Passover, and it is definitely my favorite American one. Because I’m Jewish, I don’t celebrate Christmas, although I love decorating Christian friends’ trees and going to their celebrations. July 4th is very patriotic, and you can do a lot of grilling and march in a parade. But it doesn’t have that same homey feel about it as Thanksgiving.
One Thanksgiving dinner I was too young to remember has become famous in my family. When I was about 3 or 4, my grandmother, who was hosting the meal, slipped in the kitchen and broke her leg while the rest of us were sitting at the dining table. Apparently, she insisted we stay and eat, even though an ambulance took her to the hospital. I think my mother went with her. But the rest of us, so the story goes, enjoyed the holiday and ate very well. (My grandmother was a phenomenal cook).
And then there were the two Thanksgivings I cooked for my parents and favorite aunt just before I left New York City for nine years. I’ve never been prouder than I was on those two occasions. It felt as if they marked my loving entry into the family as a full-fledged adult.
The next year, I was in France. I called my parents and I called Hinda (my aunt), and I missed everybody. So the year after that, on Thanksgiving I made a feast. I cooked everything myself and invited my good friends and my roommates. I had to explain Thanksgiving to most of them. The hard part wasn’t explaining the story of Thanksgiving and its origins, it was explaining the emotion behind the event and what a special time it was to be with people you love.
One of my two closest American friends (both came) had a friend with no place to go, so of course I invited him. It turned out he knew a couple of my French friends because their kids had gone to the same school. What are the odds of that in a city of 2 million? It just made the day feel more like Thanksgiving back home. I improvised a stuffing recipe using both chestnuts (French tradition) and bread (American tradition) because it looked like there wasn’t enough without the bread. I hoped it would work out, and thank goodness it did. The turkey came out OK too, not too dry. I seem to remember basting it about every 2 minutes, but that must just be what it felt like.
A few years later, I married a Frenchman (in New York City, but that’s another story), and the next year, I decided we’d celebrate Thanksgiving at home in Paris. Since turkeys are pretty big for two people and not so common there in November, I bought a goose the day before and got excited about preparing it and making my first Thanksgiving with my new husband.
Very early the next morning, the phone rang. My father had died. I flew home immediately. Because of the time difference, I arrived in New York before dinner time that same day to be with my mother. Stunned and heartbroken as we were, it was good to be together.
A few years later, I moved back to the United States, and there were many Thanksgivings with family and friends.
Now I’m in Central New York, and my son is in college in France. Sometimes I get back to New York City for Thanksgiving. I stay with one of my oldest friends and celebrate the holiday with her and her extended family, all of whom I’ve known for decades.
But even then, my son isn’t there. And that makes me sad. So last year, I did something about it. He was here in July, so I made Thanksgiving then. I bought turkey parts and made stuffing and side dishes, and we had pumpkin pie and, of course, cranberry sauce. It was fun. And we ate leftovers long enough to get sick of them, just the way you’re supposed to.
This year, he arrived in late August, since his school doesn’t start again until October. That’s why Thanksgiving is in September. So I’d better stop writing and start looking for cranberry sauce. I don’t know how much there is around this time of year.
