Thanksgiving Dinner

This was certainly the first (and probably last) Thanksgiving meal I ate with my hands. And I certainly hope it is the last time I pass Thanksgiving without tasting pecan pie. Yet, on the flip side, I enjoyed not feeling like a float in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade once the meal was finished.

Jenna and I partook of ‘Thanksgiving dinner’ at a local restaurant in Tirur, where the other patrons had probably never heard of the holiday and would balk at eating anything resembling cranberry sauce.

We had tried to explain the meaning behind Thanksgiving to several coworkers a few days ago, to little effect. When you think about it, it is one of the more odd American celebrations. And it is utterly impossible to describe to people who speak little English.

“Uhh…it is when we give thanks. You know….uhhh…family…friends…food. Uhhh…long ago…white people came to America. The Indians—not you, Indians—uhhh…native Indians…American Indians…gave white people food. And now…uhhh…we eat a lot to celebrate that. And we watch football.”

It sounds even less convincing in person.

Anyway, our Thanksgiving meal consisted of ‘Chicken 65’, a popular fired chicken dish; Goby Manjoory, fried cauliflower bathed in a tangy broth (reminiscent of Chinese Sweet and Sour sauce); rice and bottled water. It sounds simple but it turned out to be the biggest meal Jenna and I had had in weeks. We were both nearly bursting when we finished.

We have come to appreciate the dexterity and energy of a life lived with small portion sizes—the absence of a desire to pass out after every gargantuan meal. But the feeling we had tonight hit the spot. It is a taste of that lassitude we would be feeling on Thanksgiving in America—minus the pecan pie, of course.