Commentary: I made Thanksgiving dinner happen

Jordan Cracknell, I learned from an opinion piece in November's online newspaper, metro.co.uk., is one of around 166,000 Americans living in the UK. She travelled there four years ago to study at Cambridge University. Cracknell continued to celebrate Thanksgiving – a decidedly American tradition – with her English husband. In the article, she describes Thanksgivings with her family in the States in words that conjure a Norman Rockwell painting. I was enjoying the article until I read: It's time for Thanksgiving to be included in the UK's yearly celebrations. Dear Jordan: No. I love America. That's one reason I immigrated here. But, as the French say, "Vive la différence." Young Brits are unaware of how American culture has influenced much of their language and traditions. An observation, not a criticism. Halloween, a Scottish tradition, is now celebrated throughout the UK, American-style with threats of tricks if no treat. National Football League teams compete in London's Wembley Stadium. Many Americans have embraced soccer, but the rate of exchange is heavily weighted in favor of America. I recall blinking in surprise when I first saw the McDonald's restaurant across the street from my favorite hotel in my English hometown. I've celebrated Thanksgiving every year since I came here. A relative who typically hosts our family Thanksgivings is a gourmet cook who prepares all her dishes from scratch. This year, she declined to host. I offered, then immediately flopped onto the couch. A month earlier, I hosted a dinner for nine. It took me a week to recover. Last year, my daughter, Tina, attended an out-of-town Thanksgiving dinner that was purchased, pre-cooked. She gave the food an excellent review. I could do that, I thought, and have time to enjoy family and not end up exhausted. My daughter offered to pick up the food on her way to our house. Excellent. Thanksgiving morning, I was a nervous wreck. The kitchen was spotless. No pots boiling, nothing baking, and worse, no turkey smell wafting throughout the house. I paced the tidy kitchen. Tina called. Don't worry, mother, she said, before I said a word. I will not be late. Thirty minutes later, she texted me a picture of piles of food containers stashed in her trunk. I was determined not to advertise that I had not slaved away for days, as our gourmet cook probably did. So, aided and abetted by my daughter, before any guests arrived, we tore the shrink wrapping from the turkey and the ham. I muscled the turkey into the oven – preheated for two hours since I had nothing else to do. Heaved the ham into the roaster oven my husband retrieved from a basement storage cupboard barricaded by important rusted equipment he might use someday. I periodically opened the oven and wafted the turkey smell into the kitchen. There was no shortage of food. Besides the turkey and ham, there were five side dishes, plus soup and gravy. Tina and I scooped the cartons of side dishes into our own dishes. We stuffed the empty containers into garbage bags and deposited them in a bin. Out of sight. Outside. The gourmet cook must never see the evidence. I planned to block the fridge that held extra food, with labels. Now, lest you think all I had to do was lie on the couch with my feet up, you'd be wrong. Each side dish required reheating, and not all at the same temperature, and for the same time. And microwaving was not recommended. When the guests arrived, the kitchen island was covered with food in decorative dishes – all cold. Tina distracted guests by pointing to the hors d'oeuvres she prepared. After I heated the turkey for the required one and three-quarter hours, I heaved it out and popped in several of the side dishes. Never having heated four dishes in the oven at the same time, I was unaware that number of pans requires more time to heat through. I pulled out a dish and beckoned Tina to test. It's still cold, she whispered. Back in the oven. Ten minutes later, another dish, another taste test. Warm but not hot. This went on for at least an hour while the turkey sat on the island, cooling. The fifth time I waved Tina into the kitchen, she held her stomach. Mother, she squeaked, I'm so full I have no appetite for dinner. My idea of having the food prepared so I could visit with family, and not be tired, was a complete failure. I was exhausted. I might just as well have cooked the entire meal myself. What would I have replied to the gourmet cook if she had asked about the food? I would have said what my daughter taught me to say. "I didn't make it, but I made it happen." Pauline Nevins is the author of the memoir, "Fudge" The Downs and Ups of a Biracial, Half-Irish British War Baby, and Bonkers for Conkers, a compilation of personal essays. She can be reached at paulinenevins.com.