Gobble Gobble

I have just survived my first Thanksgiving in the States unscathed, however now I do walk around under the impression that consuming just three meals a day is for people who lack ambition.

When I was there I had to eat something I didn’t want to, which for me is saying something. I had to eat my words.

For some time it has been a sport for of mine (and most Londoners) to slag off Americans. Maybe the participation rate of this sport is so high because it is pretty darn easy to win a place in the finals. Three words: war on terror. But our cousins across the pond do have something over us Londoners: a genuine capacity to relax and enjoy themselves without artificial stimulants (yes this includes X Factor.)

The joy that radiates from Americans during Thanksgiving is almost thermonuclear. At first I just assumed that the saturated fat had finally triumphed to become the number one ingredient in their brain. Then I realised that these jolly people were just genuinely happy. This emotion was difficult for me to recognise after living so many years in London. Their joy was also contagious. I even eventually gave in and found myself saying ‘happy holidays’ to every person who crossed my path. The odd poodle also had to endure my new found desire to spread goodwill. I didn’t even know what my annoying new greeting meant...admittedly I should've been able to crack this verbal code.

I only truly understood its meaning when Thanksgiving Day itself came around.

Never in one place have I seen so many potatoes, and I have been to Ireland on several occasions. Happy holidays indeed. My first task of the day was to peel all 20lbs of them for my hosts. Manual labour has never brought me so much pleasure.

Had I had an understandable heart attack at that moment, I would have died a happy woman. Nothing could have topped the sight of all those potatoes sitting in the pan, waiting for greatness. That is until I saw the cooking appliance in which my gravy was being made. I say ‘appliance’ deliberately, because anything that needs to be plugged in is surely an appliance. My gravy was being housed in the world’s largest crock-pot: undoubtably the two sweetest words in the English language.

Now I finally understood my host’s insistence that I wear sweat pants to lunch. This meal called for clothing without boundaries.

As promised the day consisted entirely of eating, drinking and watching TV in comfortable trousers that could sleep two. The genius of Thanksgiving being that unlike at Christmas time there is no requirement to make a pilgrimage to church, and no pressure to spend money on others (when you would obviously rather be spending on yourself.)

So I wondered why us London folk have not adopted this truly transformational holiday, after all our love of lard based products would make it easy for us assimilate. When it comes down to it, I am convinced it is simply because Thanksgiving would require us to relax to a point that would make us feel uncomfortable; loose clothing, spontaneous displays of affection and the decision to set a straw next to the knife and fork to aid gravy consumption. What if someone saw us? Making an arse of ourselves is reserved only for reality TV shows. Reality is something else.

So sorry Londoners, the Americans have got at least one thing right (please note that Americans have got the following things wrong: The Amish, cheese products in a spray can, any member of the Bush family, American Football, Dr Pepper and Britney Spears.)

I do wonder however whether I would be so happy to eat my words if said words weren’t smothered in gravy.




God bless the gravy makers: The Moore, Zajac and Plunkett families.