My First American Thanksgiving Dinner

Even though I moved with my husband from Brazil to the US in December of 1997, during our first six years in the country we lived in Florida, where he worked for the Latin American division of the company; so most of our friends were Latinos. Therefore, our Thanksgiving Days were spent among Mexicans, Cubans, Puerto Ricans, etc., in a mix of various cultures and family traditions. Yes, turkey was served, but with a Latin flavor. And the side dishes ranged from guacamole and refried beans to choclo pie and fried platanos. And as we Latinos tend to exaggerate, someone always brought a roasted lechon, besides arroz con pollo and some papas rellenas. I learned a lot about Hispanic food during those years. Only when we moved to Atlanta in 2006, I attended my first traditional American Thanksgiving dinner.

On our move to Atlanta we had the support of an old friend of my husband, who very kindly prepared us a folder with information about the area where we still live. As soon as we settled, he and his wife invited us for a Sunday brunch. When we arrived at their house I was delighted with our hostess care for detail, everything was so beautiful. The table was set with an embroidered tablecloth, fine china and silver cutlery, and over everyone’s plates rested a crystal cup filled with a fruit parfait layered with yogurt and cereal, everything was charming and delicious.

My oldest daughter was seven, and the little one only three. Do you think I was relaxed and enjoyed it all? No, I did not. I was on top of the girls throughout the visit. Our hosts’ kids were adults and there were no grandchildren yet, so not only the table was elegantly served, the whole house was fabulously decorated with tempting objects for chubby little fingers almost everywhere. I remember spending a lot of time following my three year old around their living room, while keeping an eye on my lively young lady who chatted with the hostess, but in the end everything worked out fine, both behaved well, and I returned home relieved.

We reciprocated the brunch with a simple dinner, because our things had been sent to China by mistake. Please, don’t ask me how the moving company played that, it baffles me still. Suffices to say that I returned an elegant breakfast served on fine china, with a dinner served on disposables. My husband insisted, and I agreed, that we couldn’t let much time pass us by before returning their kindness. In my defense I must point out that I did the best I could under the circumstances. The important thing is that during dinner here at home, we were invited for Thanksgiving dinner with their family. And they asked my older daughter if she liked turkey. And the adorable creature said, very emphatically, “I love turkey.”

By the care they showed when they served us brunch, I imagined how fancy Thanksgiving dinner would be at their house, and I wasn’t disappointed. The decor of the house had been amped up with autumnal touches, and the furniture had been rearranged to accommodate a giant T-shaped table that occupied their entire dining room.

Their family was very friendly, but all adults, there were no other children besides my girls, no one to empathize in embarrassing moments.

The first thing our host said after the usual introductions was, “Their older daughter loves turkey. Come baby, let me show you your favorite dish.”

And there it was, on the kitchen island, a magnificent roasted turkey ready to be served.

My daughter didn’t disappoint, she placed her hands on top of her tummy, smiled broadly and said, “I’m starving.”

As soon as the last guest arrived, we all started carrying trays filled with delicious side dishes to the table, mashed potatoes and baked sweet potatoes, gravy, sautéed vegetables, cranberry jelly, bread baskets, and finally the turkey. When my husband and I searched for our places around the table, we discovered that they had given us the base of the T, with two tall chairs for the girls at the end, and my husband and me by their sides, all very practical and well thought out. Therein, my older daughter was right in front of our hosts who sat in the middle of the table on the opposite side of where we were.

Our host stood up, carved the turkey, and all the dishes were passed from hand to hand family style, until we all had a plateful ahead of us. There was a beautiful prayer and we began to eat. My daughter attacked the mashed potatoes with enthusiasm, and in one of those magical moments where several things happen at the same time, precisely as they shouldn’t, everyone was enjoying their food in absolute silence, my daughter tasted the turkey, and our hostess asked out loud to be heard from the other side of the table, “Are you enjoying the food Giulia?”

And my lovely daughter answered, nearly yelling, “The mashed potatoes are good, but I don’t like the turkey, I prefer my mother’s.”

Dear reader, I believe I turned redder than the cranberry jelly.

Tags: Hispanic Thanksgiving, Thanksgiving