Fear of Pumpkins (Thanksgiving part 2)

My last post wound itself up so nicely that going into procuring Thanksgiving ingredients seemed like a bit of a tangent.  But it was an adventure which I wanted to duly document, especially as this was my first Thanksgiving where I was doing all the cooking.  I’ve helped before of course.  I’ve been helping my mother with the pies for years, including one memorable year where I was rolling out the dough for the mince pie, which we make every year for my uncle.

“Here,” my mother said, handing me a cookie cutter, “use this to cut a hole in the top so the steam can vent.”

I looked at the cookie cutter.  “Mom!  This is a Star of David!”  For the record, we’re not Jewish, so the existence of this cookie cutter in our house is a bit of a mystery.

My mother waved me off.  “Just use it.  No one will notice.”

On Thanksgiving day we put the mince pie in front of my uncle, and he took one look at it and said “Why is there a Star of David in my pie?”

In addition to making pies that welcome all faiths, I was also responsible for arranging the fruit bowls and the hors d’oevres spreads.  But I was never in on the mystery of turkey and stuffing preparation.  The most I did was shout my preferences from the living room.  And, when my father wanted to eschew canned cranberry sauce for the homemade stuff only, raised a protest with my sister.   After all, the log of cranberry sauce with the indentations of the can still in the side and the date stamped on the bottom is the very essence of Thanksgiving.

This year, though, I’m living in England, and no one here does Thanksgiving dinner.  They do roasts of course, and that’s very close, but I needed it to taste the same, and be American.  Thus began the odyssey of finding the exact right ingredients.

The turkey was pretty easy to come by.  I wanted a butcher one, and my mother in law worried it might be hard to get if we had to order it.  But lo and behold, she walked into the shop and there was 6kg of bird in all its glory.  Sweet potatoes don’t come in a can, but I was doing an orange glazed sweet potatoes that could be made with canned or fresh.  Alright, peeling and prepping sweet potatoes would bring me one step too close to living out Chinua Achebe’s Things Fall Apart (aka by me as Okonkwo and the Yam), a novel which I was forced to read as a student and teach, and which I have never liked.  But I was willing to make some sacrifices, for Thanksgiving.

Living with an Englishman, I had fortunately perfected a roast and mashed potatoes.  I think he would divorce me if I couldn’t do those things.  He was insistent we roast the turkey with ‘streaky bacon’ on it, which is just regular bacon to any American.  The British use back bacon, which is more meat and less fat, a difference I had learned of long ago.  The secret truth is that I prefer British bacon.

I decided to make the stuffing for myself.  The Brits have dried stuffing–I myself have cooked Paxo on several occasions.  But the bread bits are too small…there’s not enough celery…basically it’s tasty, but it’s just not Thanksgiving stuffing.

All in all, my Thanksgiving plans were coming together with ease.  The cherry pie filling my mother always uses wasn’t available, but as my husband hates cherries anyway I swapped cherry pie for raspberry pie and decided I was beginning my own tradition.  But then I hit some stumbling blocks: cranberry sauce and pumpkin pie.

I discovered that the Brits do in fact do cranberry sauce, and it’s even Ocean Spray that you find on the shelves.  But the kind that I had seen was whole berry in a tasteful little jar, and that just wouldn’t do.  I needed the jellied, smooth kind, in the can.  Amazon was selling it, but it wouldn’t arrive in time.  So two days before Thanksgiving I wandered the aisles of my local mega-Tesco, trying to hunt down the can.  In the end, I found the smooth stuff, but it was in a jar.  I would miss the round slices of cranberry sauce, but I chalked it up to cultural differences.  At least it was Ocean Spray, and at least it would taste the same.

The hardest thing by far was pumpkin for pumpkin pie.  I had ordered some off Amazon, but they sent me an email saying it wouldn’t arrive until Monday, which left me in a desperate situation.  I had to have pumpkin pie.  It’s that thing only a few people like, but you have to make it anyway because it *is* Thanksgiving.  I went up and down every aisle at Tesco.  Perhaps it would be with the squash in the vegetable aisle.  No.  Perhaps then with canned fruit or veg?  No.  Baking ingredients?  No…  I finally resorted to International foods, and there I found canned breadfruit and lychees, and a selection of Polish baby food, but no pumpkin.

As my husband helped me hunt, he pointed out “Even if you had gotten a pumpkin in October, it wouldn’t have been grown for taste.”  Halloween is sort of kind of making a start over here.  “We don’t really eat pumpkin.”

In that moment, I felt like I was really someone from the New World.  Of *course* you eat pumpkin.  It doesn’t just go into pie, but bread, and soup, and muffins, and even ravioli.

In the end, I prayed that the pumpkin my father-in-law had grown at his allotment was still good, and by a Thanksgiving miracle, it was.  So I made a pumpkin pie from absolute scratch, something I had never done before.  On the internet there was a helpful woman who, despite her use of comic sans, had many useful recommendations for cooking pumpkin pie abroad and had all her measurements in metric.  I was a real pioneer girl, making the food of my homeland in a foreign country.  Thanksgiving in reverse.

I still can’t get over the suspicion of pumpkins, which are so ubiquitous and innocuous to me.  But my sister-in-law, while heartily praising many of the dishes I made, marveling at how the cranberry sauce I cooked (I couldn’t resist trying it, and it’s crazy-easy) went from a mess to cranberry sauce, and praising both stuffings.  But she squinted at the pumpkin pie and said “That wasn’t what I was expecting.”  She thought it would be a two crust pie.  How could someone not know what pumpkin pie looks like?

When I related my epic orange odyssey to my best friend, also British, she said “I’m a bit wary of pumpkin.  It’s just that goop you get out of it when you make lanterns…I can’t imagine how that makes pie that tastes nice.”  That’s not even the bit you use!

Most of the time, living in England is not too terribly different from living in America.  A lot of the time when it comes to food, I can get the exact same brands as i do in America, and if not that, the general type of food is very similar.  There’s no language barrier.  But something as simple as the attitude toward pumpkin makes me realize this is a different country entirely.  One which is suspicious of squash.

On Thanksgiving a couple of family members dared to try the pumpkin pie.  The raspberry was gone within minutes, as were most of the mini mince pies I made.  But I took three quarters of the pumpkin back with me.  I have to say it was a good one though–creamy and rich and nice and spicy.  I’d make it again, but I can’t get any pumpkin.

A Very British Thanksgiving

British people are slightly afraid of pumpkins.

This is the weirdest lesson I’ve learned this Thanksgiving, but there are many others.

Thanksgiving is a tricky holiday if you live far from relatives.  It’s a big day that lots of people celebrate, and the day before Thanksgiving is often known as the biggest travel day of the year.  It comes inconveniently on a Thursday and not everyone has the Friday off.  More to the point, I live across an ocean, and if I’m going to come back I feel like I should choose my week wisely.  Thanksgiving is big and small at the same time–a big feast and a short amount of time.

Although I knew I was going to spend this Thanksgiving in England, I couldn’t not celebrate it.  My family is an eating family, and every year there is a vast spread, from Italian antipasti consisting of pickled vegetables to cheeses to coldcuts, then of course the turkey dinner, to fruit and nuts and four kinds of pie for dessert–and my father always buys a ton of Lindt chocolates.  It’s insane, but I couldn’t go without doing anything, so I set about making plans to host a Thanksgiving dinner.  MR and I have bought a house, but we’re still waiting for the paperwork to process, and at the moment we only live in a tiny apartment which can in a pinch, squeeze four people.  So my mother in law volunteered her kitchen, very generously.

Then it came time to procure the ingredients.  Most of it wasn’t too hard, because the British still often do a roast dinner on Sundays, and many of the components are the same: meat, gravy, mashed potatoes, vegetables, etc.  The only thing was that I had to stand my ground regarding a turkey.  MR suggested we just get a turkey crown, which consists of the breasts only.  I was horrified–you can’t skimp on the *turkey.*  That’s the *point* of Thanksgiving!  After explaining this to him, we charged his mother with getting a turkey from the butcher in town.  As soon as she heard the mission, she asked “But wouldn’t you rather have a turkey crown?”

But that’s the thing about the British.  They don’t do excess, especially not with food, and yet Thanksgiving is all about excess.  As I described our meal, I noticed that everyone looked apprehensive at the idea of four kinds of pie and two kinds of stuffing and both mashed and sweet potatoes.  Meanwhile I was thinking that I wasn’t even cooking green bean casserole, or cornbread, because that’s just not what my family do.

This is something I’m learning about the British.  They are not a food culture.  I always kind of knew this, and of course there are tired stereotypes about British food being horrible.  When I traveled to England, before I knew any British people, I was surprised that the food was actually very good.  Not very fancy, but then my father’s family was German, and the Germans do the same kind of simple, hearty, tasty food.  Except they are much more enthusiastic about it.

In her book Watching the English, anthropologist Kate Fox devotes an entire chapter to the nation’s attitude towards food.  To sum it up, it’s basically this: if an English person cares too much about food, they are affected and snooty.  That seems to be a crime among the everyday English (which is worth a whole other post when I finally half figure out what the attitudes toward class are in this country.  It is very complex.).  So they adopt a very laissez-faire attitude towards food.  The easiest, cheapest way is the best, and anyone who goes to lengths to source ingredients or pays extra to get the nicer oils or vinegars, is regarded with a bit of suspicion.  I found this hard to believe.  I come from a rather gastronomic city, and in New York there are not only tons of world class restaurants, even the street food is quality.  People will argue for hours where to get the best bagels, and the best pizza.  When people find the ideal neighborhood place, they will travel to it for said pizzas or bagels, even if that means sitting in traffic on the BQE.   I know both an Italian and a German bakery in Queens (Joe’s Sicilian and Stork’s respecitvely) that both get lines around the block around any holiday–and deservedly so.  I will happily pay $15 for a plate of cookies from Stork’s because they are fabulous.  I have seen my father drop more than $100 in delis on a regular basis.

Which is the other thing–not only do I come from a food city, I come from a food family.  Culturally, both my ethnic backgrounds have a strong food backbone.  Italians are famous for being a food culture, and Germans have a healthy love for food themselves, especially when it comes to pastry.  And meat.  At least the Germans I’ve met, anyway.  My mother trained me to bake and cook from when I was small, and bake and cook in volume.  My father is actually obsessed with food, and spends hours driving to farm stands on the end of Long Island, or German butchers half an hour away just to get the meat he wants.  He spends an ungodly amount on food–in a week, he’ll easily spend what my husband and I have budgeted for food for a month.  Nevertheless, some of this has seeped into me.  I know that butcher meat is better than supermarket meat.  I know good food is sometimes worth the trouble and expense.  My friends get really excited about food even if they can’t cook.  When one of my friends was first starting out in her early twenties, she called me one night to ask how she should cook a can of corn (though to her credit, she has figured out how to cook in the intervening years).  But this same friend would talk enthusiastically about pizza, or remind me of pancakes my father made when she slept over in high school.  Another friend, a Texas transplant, will eat a bowl of microwaved vegetables for dinner when her husband is out of town, but ask her about getting Tex-Mex food in New York City, and she will report to you on the sad state of that cuisine in the northeast.  She will, however, tell you that it is possible to get real barbecue at Hill Country Barbecue, although she herself makes a mean brisket.  But she doesn’t like to cook.

That to me was being laissez fair about food–enjoying it still, but not being bothered for its preparation.  However, if good stuff was available, everyone I knew thought it worth the money.

Not so with the English. The first time MR and I had a real disagreement, it was over wedding cake.  I had thought my sister might make the wedding cake, being a baker, but she was also maid of honor and, more importantly, had no access to any of the tools she would need.  So I was telling this to him, and he turned very stubborn and vociferous.  “We are not spending hundreds of pounds on a wedding cake.  It’s a waste of money.  Nobody even eats it.”

“They will eat it, if it’s good.  I want people to remember our wedding cake as being delicious.”

“There’s no point!  We could just get a wedding cake from Marks & Spencer.”

A supermarket wedding cake?!  I was aghast.  Thus we started debating, and the debate was only solved by my mother stepping in and declaring “You have to have a real wedding cake.  I’ll pay for it.”

When it came to Thanksgiving and debates over turkey crowns and and suspicions about whether four kinds of pie was really necessary, I remembered the cake discussion.  I wasn’t surprised, but it was an attitude which still flummoxed me.  Why not have regular coffee instead of instant, for example?  Why be so blase about food?

The answer comes from World War II, I think.  There was rationing in the US, indeed all over, but the Brits took it to an extreme, and the rationing lasted for a long time after the war–due to post war recovery, strikes, and bad weather, rationing didn’t stop completely until 1954–nearly ten years after the end of the war.  During that time, the Brits did what they do best–make do and mend, soldier on.  Between governmental campaigns and the tenacity for survival that the British have in abundance, food stopped being a luxury and became something you ate to live.  As we’re only a handful of generations after that time, it’s not to hard to see why indulging in food is still seen as needless waste.

But I was hosting Thanksgiving, and the very definition of the holiday was about bounty, loading the table with as many goods of the harvest as are in reach.  Before the Hunger Games ironically used the cornucopia, the horn of plenty was a symbol of Thanksgiving, the idea of having an overabundance of food.  I seemed to be at a cultural impasse.

There was nothing for it but to soldier on and prepare the dinner as I would have done in the States, in the American way–be American no matter what, whether it fits in or not.  So on Thursday I sat down with my in-laws at an American Thanksgiving table, and explained about the pilgrims and Squanto, and we all dug in.  Everyone gamefully loaded their plates and stuffed themselves to the point of complaining about feeling sick afterwards.  There was a bit of family bickering and people trying to help but just getting in the way.

In short, it was a proper Thanksgiving.

Tis the season

The holidays are fast approaching, and I am getting very excited.  Many people are not, as evidenced by these tv ads:

Basically the gist is, Christmas is a pain in the ass, but in the end you get the warm fuzzies.

My husband got upset at the Asda ad (the first one) because the tagline is “Behind every great Christmas, there’s Mum.”  He tends to get up and arms very quickly when he gets a whiff of reverse sexism (something that doesn’t exist so much).  Here, though, I have to agree with him–good holidays should be a team effort from both partners, and he’s definitely going to be the one putting kids’ bikes together, and we’ll do the dinner together…

Holy crap.  I just realized I have a date for all holidays for the rest of my life.  I also have a reason to host holidays.  I think this is a watershed moment, where I realize that I’m actually an adult.  Before this, I was always at my parents’ for holidays, helping out perhaps, but never in charge.  Now I realize that things could start to be very different.

They already are.  This year I’m hosting Thanksgiving, because I can’t just not celebrate it.  I love Thanksgiving!  I love all holidays, but I’m getting to that.  Obviously British people don’t celebrate Thanksgiving at all, but for me it is a lovely meal, the start of the holiday season.  It’s about fall colors and turkeys, and, in my family, a meal that goes on for literally six hours with lots of wine.  I can’t just let it pass by and shove a Tesco curry in the oven.

So I’m cooking Thanksgiving dinner for my in laws.  This will be a massive undertaking, since obviously I have to do it exactly like my parents do.  That means ordering pumpkin pie filling from Amazon.  But cherry pie filling can’t be obtained, and cans of jellied cranberry sauce (you know, with the rings permanently impressed into the semi-solid state of the cranberry sauce) is exhorbitantly priced.  Stuffing is also weird here, with smaller bits.  I’m used to the big cruton style stuffing.  But there will be three kinds of pie at least (apple, pumpkin, and mince), and my father’s sausage stuffing, and the turkey of course, and my mother’s orange yams, and mashed potatoes…as you can see, it’s quite the undertaking.  And yet I can’t wait.  I sit and plan in my head what I’m going to need and what I have to buy.

The same is true for Christmas.  Those ads make decorating and shopping seem a chore, but the truth is I love that stuff.  All of it.  I’ve always had a soft spot in my heart for presents, because to me they’re very significant.  Someone goes out with you in mind and brings something back for you because they think you’ll like it–this is such a generous and thoughtful thing to do.  I realize that not all gifts are so personal, but I’d like to think they are.  I certainly take pride in carefully selecting presents for the people on my list, because I truly want them to get enjoyment out of these things.  When I see them doing so, it makes me happier than I can express.

But it’s not just the buying.  It’s the wrapping too.  When one of my friends moved to Germany, she gave me a wrapping station that holds all the tubes of wrapping paper, plus ribbon, plus scissors.  It was one of the best things I ever got in my life.  I couldn’t take it with me, and I was sad, but at least I know it found a good home with my sister.  Clearly I shall have to build a new wrapping empire here in England, and affordable and ubiquitous wrapping paper will make that a cinch.  The weird thing though is that the English don’t do present boxes.  Any American is familiar with the scramble to secure wrapping boxes, and the resulting stack of postcard perfect presents in perfectly square shapes.  I asked my husband about this and he was astonished to find that Americans use boxes.  He muttered about it for a good while, mostly along the lines of “Well, that just seems a bit of a waste of time.”  Nevertheless, I shall persevere and still have gorgeously wrapped presents.

I love it all, from the tree trimming to the baking to the Christmas carols in church.  Holidays fill me with cheer, and I love the idea of not only being happy myself, but also spreading that happiness to others.  What would otherwise be a very dark and cold part of the year is alight and warm with a festive spirit.  What’s not to love?

My husband, however, is not a particularly festive person when it comes to Christmas.  Gift giving to him is much more of a chore.  This year we’re treating each other to a weekend in London–he’ll get to see Professor Brian Cox and I’ll get to see Les Mis.  I’m not complaining about this arrangement in the slightest, as I get to see Les Mis and London, two things I especially enjoy.  But presents mean very little to him, and he professes to being ‘holiday-ed out’ at a certain point.  I, on the other hand, can sit for marathon sessions with my family on holidays.  It helps that as my father gets older, he gets slightly less crazy.

So now that I’m a grownup, and in charge of my holidays, I have to work on getting him more into the holiday spirit.  This is not so much for his sake as for our future children’s.  I want them to think of holidays fondly, as a good time for my family.  This is even more possible since I’m married to a man who does not tend towards semi schizophrenic rages.  But still, he does need some get up and go when it comes to holidays to make it something truly merry.  The question is, how do you get someone into the holiday spirit when they’ve never really had it?  That is the real puzzle.  Meanwhile, I will be happily purchasing Christmas bows to coordinate my wrapping paper.