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A French Thanksgiving

  • Photo du rédacteur: amhhowell
    amhhowell
  • 26 nov. 2016
  • 2 min de lecture

A couple of years ago when I was teaching French and working on my PhD at the University of Louisiana in Lafayette, one of my students asked me how to say “Thanksgiving” in French. I gave her the best equivalent available, but followed that up by saying, “The thing is, they don’t celebrate Thanksgiving in France, which makes sense when you consider the origins of Thanksgiving.”

“But what do they DO on Thanksgiving?” she asked with horror.

“Nothing,” I replied, “It’s just a normal day.”

She lapsed into silence, but I could tell that this revelation had profoundly disturbed her world vision: no Thanksgiving?

Although I don’t get particularly emotional about holidays, I must admit that as an American, Fall is a strange season in France. Without Halloween (which is not really celebrated in much of Europe to my understanding) or Thanksgiving, the autumn months feel… empty. No jack-o-lanterns. No Fall décor. Instead, the glitzy towers of Christmas chocolates that invaded grocery stores in October make me feel like we just sort of skipped over Fall entirely.

This year, I decided to rebel and impose Thanksgiving on Nico’s unsuspecting family. The preparations began early in the week when, for want of a turkey, Nico’s mom, Nico, and I butchered three chickens. Let me just say that I do not envy the Pilgrims or Amerindians in our nice Thanksgiving story, because without plastic and soapy warm water, butchering chickens or turkeys would be rather foul. (Sorry for the corny play on words – I just couldn’t resist!) Preparations continued with two pumpkin pies, stuffing, gravy, green beans, butternut squash, maple-syrup and Bourbon glazed carrots, and artichoke spinach dip bites: all of which were utterly new to our French guests. They dug in with gusto, and judging from the leftovers, particularly enjoyed the stuffing, green bean casserole, and pumpkin pie. As for yours truly, all feels right in the world; now we can move on to Christmas.

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About Me

It all began in a typical middle school classroom in suburbia. As the September sun streamed in through the large windows, we obediently repeated the strange-sounding phrases after our teacher: Bonjour, bonsoir, comment ça va? It was my first day of French class, and utterly unbeknownst to me, that day marked the beginning of a love affair that would shape the course of my entire life. 

 

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