When I think of Thanksgiving, I think of Wednesday Addams in ‘Addams Family Values’. There is the marvellous scene where Wednesday, the ultimate subversive, gives a hilarious and bloodthirsty version of the Pilgrim Fathers’ first Thanksgiving, not quite in keeping with the traditions of her more conventional camp mates.  This post is not about that, but it does remind me of when I learned about Thanksgiving, asking my poor father interminable questions, only silenced when my mother summoned me to help her with the cornbread stuffing.  I was 6 years old, and this was my first Thanksgiving in America.

I had started 1st grade earlier that autumn, and was still coming to terms with having chocolate milk out of a carton for lunch, and navigating the school district’s bus system (I once had to be retrieved a couple of stops down the line by my exasperated older brother; when asked why I had got on the wrong bus, I told him that just seemed to be the right thing to do).  The leaves changed, Disney’s Robin Hood came out at the cinema, and I was confronted with my first thespian endeavour, devised by my first grade teacher, Mrs Loffgren.  The first grade was to re-enact the first meal between the settlers and the Native Americans.  I believe I was a convincing ear of corn.

My parents had celebrated Thanksgiving before, but this was the first time I was going to be surrounded by members of my American family; Great Aunt Winifred, Uncle Jim, Cousin Barbara, and my Great Uncle’s aunt, Aunt Regina.  I remember getting glared at by my mother when I first met Aunt Regina and made the ultimate error of mispronouncing her name,

‘Aunt Vagina, can I get you a drink?’

I was saved by the fact that the nice old lady was deaf, and the older relatives (other than my mother) were out of earshot.

My mother, a German by birth, embraced cooking the Thanksgiving dinner with vigour.  The turkey was roasted, hams were baked, and she thought we would starve if we didn’t have at least 8 side dishes.  I had helped her bake pecan and pumpkin pies (well, I licked the bowl) and a couple of German desserts just in case there wasn’t enough.   As we sat down to that memorable feast, the snow settlng outside, and the chat wafting over me about traditions and loved ones no longer with us, I remember feeling content, with a deep sense of belonging.  And very, very full.