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Peeling the spuds for Thursday’s mashed potatoes, I had the feeling that something was off. I was about to celebrate the most important American holiday in its country of origin, the weather was appropriately brisk, my tablet was pouring out seasonal music, and a turkey dinner at a relative’s house was on the calendar.
But it didn’t feel the same as my holiday preparation in Europe (Italy and France), which I’d been doing for more than three decades. It didn’t feel as meaningful. The question was “Why not?”
The answer is multi-layered.
When we moved to Italy, my kids were young and absorbed local culture easily. Thanksgiving had been a way to preserve some American identity, so I was conscientious about preparing a traditional holiday meal on that day.
Advance planning was needed: I had to remember to pick up cranberry sauce and stuffing while visiting the US during the summer. Finding a proper-sized turkey involved trial and error. The menu had to be re-jiggered.
When I was a child, we always started Thanksgiving meal with soup. In Italy, I tried pasta. But once the pasta dish was done, nobody wanted turkey, much less potatoes or stuffing. I soon abandoned that for antipasto. I realized that people didn’t eat salad alongside the main course, so I…
