Why, thank you...thank you very much.

Last week we enjoyed our first homemade (pre)Thanksgiving Dinner. Our friend Ron, henceforth to be known as Ron The Legend or simply, RTL, prepared a brobdingnagian* feast fit to fling you up a trouser size in one happy evening. The table groaned ‘neath a Turkey the size of…Turkey, its crisp skin glistening with rich promise as it basked, besieged by bounteous dishes; chestnut stuffing, spinach and sweet potato cake, Brussels sprouts with pancetta (or ‘bacon’ as someone heartlessly chirped), rich gravy, Ceasar Salad, home-baked apple crumble and real New York Cheescake. I sat strategically, opposite the host (in order that some of his arcane culinary conjury might rub off on me) and next to Aussie Trent, the wine virtuoso whose vision of Hell involves friends with empty glasses. Conversation reigned, wine poured, and one of our joyous 11 even gave thanks, happy to have traversed some difficult times.

Celebrated on the fourth Thursday of November, Thanksgiving is the traditional North American holiday when Families and friends gather around a festive meal to give thanks at the conclusion of the harvest season. It originated when the Plymouth settlers (who came to be called "Pilgrims") set apart a holiday immediately after their first harvest in 1621. They held an autumn celebration of food, feasting, and praising God. Apparently, they were particularly grateful to Squanto, the Native American and former British slave who taught them how to catch eel (er…thanks) and grow corn. This know-it-all also served as their native interpreter. I imagine he was like a silken-haired, feather-flaunting version of our own RTL, and probably threw a first-rate soiree to boot.

Sexy stores such as Whole Foods might negate the once poignant observance of the seasons (you can get just about anything anytime nowadays – Spring Onions in November?) but the essence of the holiday remains affecting. Our lives, like the sped-up footage you see of traffic at night, headlights streaming like bright ethereal tendrils, are manic. Rarely do we take the time to stand back from the confusion and appreciate the things that we have, the parts that make up the happy whole. After years (my entire life, actually) of striving towards one goal, I have finally found my grail. I have a three book publishing deal with Transworld, a division of Random House. All feelings of guilt and unworthiness, those bricks that, as a creative and would-be author I have lugged around in my bag of dreams, I can now hurl into the abyss. I can now sit at my desk and write. Officially. It is at last, unbelievably, luckily, and most wonderfully, my job. I have many people to thank for this, from accommodating family and friends, to agents and editors, and if I was to buy them all a drink I would need to swipe Ms J.K. Rowling’s ‘Notebook of ideas for next book,’ just to afford it. And this is why Thanksgiving is one American institution I would gladly take back to Blighty and keep in my heart alongside Coca Cola, The Simpsons, Pizza, Elvis Presley, John Wayne, and those giant pretzels. (I don’t actually eat those giant pretzels, but I like them. I like them very much indeed). Not everyone has an RTL or even a Squanto (just as well if you don’t eat eel) but we all have someone to thank or something to be thankful for.

However, one thing I’m not giving thanks for is the cookie I bought from Apoo’s Kwik-e-mart last night. The label said Boston Cookie - I said ‘come to daddy.’ But after the first bite I knew something was wrong. Where were the feelings of joy and contentment that usually tickle my soul with the first munch of a cookie? I read the label. Carefully. Zero Trans Fat. No Hydrogenated Oil. Cholesterol Free. Vegan. And last but not least, Pareve, which, apparently, is Yiddish for ‘contains neither milk nor meat ingredients.’
No wonder it tasted like shit.


[*After Brobdingnag, a country in Gulliver's Travels by Jonathan Swift, where everything was enormous.]