My friend Kyndell pointed out that I didn't post anything about having Thanksgiving in Paris. Truth is, I was hiding the fact that... I messed up on the date. Hasn't Thanksgiving always been the last Thursday of the month? You know- it's always November 27thish. Since November 2006 is extra generous as far as Thursdays go, I made the mistake in thinking, "Well, last Thursday of the month- it must be the 30th!"
I will point out here that this was actually my 3rd French Thanksgiving. The first one was shared with my visiting sister, 2 Americans, a Saint Lucian and an Australian. My sister and I bought the turkey (from a butcher who told us "Bon Thanksgiving" ), American friend #1 made the mashed potatoes, American friend #2 did the stuffing and the others watched curiously.
Last year, I presented the holiday to my in-laws. My (then future) mother-in-law made the turkey while I ran out to the Thanksgiving store and made everything else. (Thank God my mom keeps her recipe books not far from her internet access.) The yams were surprisingly easy to make and everyone loved the cornbread.
Cut to November 23, 2006. My husband and I were debating whether to make pizza or go out for sushi when my mom calls to say those fateful words: "Happy Thanksgiving!"
What?!
Phone in hand, I turned toward our tv to see the French news was showing a clip of President Bush handling a huge turkey.
Quoi?!
It was all crashing down on me. I got off the phone and declared that we had to act quickly or else we would be sacrificing my cultural right to a night of gluttony. It was too late to go all the way to the aforementioned Thanksgiving store and their adjoining restaurant was booked til the next week. So we ran to the local market, hustled up some last minute guests and thus organized Thanksgiving Dinner 2006 at our apartment.
A chicken from the rotisserie down the street served as our turkey. The yams, cranberry sauce and pumpkin pie were a lost cause. What could we do but console ourselves by replacing them with something wonderful that no one at home was getting to eat that day?
Enter the oysters. We schucked them ourselves (would you believe my French dictionary didn't have the translation for "schucking"?) and served them with a bottle of Reisling to three of our favorite neighborhood residents and a friend who'd just come into town from Marseille at the right moment. And so it was that I celebrated without any other Americans, had no turkey and missed out on my nieces' after dinner musical performance going on at home. But the evening was still spent with good conversation and quality food. And no cranberry sauce can beat the Thanksgiving oysters.