When I first introduced the national American holiday of Thanksgiving to my Spanish family the first, and most obvious, question that arose was: why?
The typical and idyllic picture of the “First Thanksgiving” has long been banished from my mind and I am aware and sensitive to the atrocities that the white man, my ancestors, did to the peoples of this land. Thanksgiving is one of my favorite holidays, but I do not believe any of us should turn a blind eye to that fact. Naively celebrating a romantized, highly embellished story of a harvest feast is untrue not only to those who were, and continue to be, wronged, but those who committed those acts against them. The days of skits and picture books of such an event is over.
I explained to my Spanish family that it was more of a family event now, a reason to meet and remember all that we have to be grateful for. I do not, for one moment, feel that the origins and realities of “The First Thanksgiving” should be ignored, but my thoughts and understanding of that is for another post, with a different title. I feel that my explanation is not inaccurate.
As I have been added to the rotation for cooking at home here, I volunteered to switch days with my Spanish host mother so that today, Thanksgiving Day, I could cook up a mini, simpler version of the feast that my family participates in annually with as many as 20 other family members and friends. Normally cooking isn’t really my scene, having been discouraged by the disasters that my first few attempts undoubtedly were. My sisters still laugh themselves to tears when they think of the smoke alarms I have set off and the pots and countertops I have ruined. Because of this I was rather under the impression that I wasn’t much of a cook and, in various times of my life, that I really didn’t like cooking much.
Thus, every time I am asked to cook I get a bit nervous, and more than a little self-conscious. I am pretty sure that does not really help with the cooking much. It was this nervousness that woke me up a half-hour early this morning and I stumbled downstairs uncharacteristically early. I began, probably a little too early, to clean the kitchen in preparation for cooking I began to think of the grand event that would be taking place tonight in the United States, 3407 miles or, rather 5483 kilometers, away. It wasn’t so much that I wanted to leave, but I really would have loved to be there, just for Thanksgiving…but it wasn’t quite time to salt the potatoes so I fought back the occasional tear by naming all the things I was grateful for. My family, the roof over my head, the clothes I wear, the family that took me in, the incredible opportunity to be able to come to Spain, the fact that this list is so very long. That seemed to work well. As preparations for the meal began to finish up the feeling slowly leaked away and the work of cooking didn’t feel so burdensome.
The food was ready…an hour early. My Spanish family trickled back home from errands, school and work and, finally, we sat down to eat. It was nothing like the angel- food my grandfather makes, but it was most definitely Thanksgiving. Maria, my Spanish mom, and I made an apple pie yesterday and we added this to our very full bellies. Muy rico! It’s my first Thanksgiving away from home, and certainly one to remember. While cleaning up, staggering a little with our big bellies, I realized that I didn't mind cooking so much. With time, experience and energy it becomes a pleasure to cook for others.
Although food seems to get the spotlight today, I hope everyone remembered to take at least a moment to think of the blessings in our lives that we have to be grateful for. Come to think, why stop after today?
God Bless you and your families, and Happy Thanksgiving.
Kika
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