A Thanksgiving Story

My first few Thanksgivings (because we do not have that holiday in England) were spent in Pittsburgh with a family of Polish descent. It wasn’t until I spent the day with other people that I realized kielbasa sausage was not a traditional Thanksgiving meal staple. I’ve since attended various get-togethers where that particular family’s traditions were on display (oyster stuffing at one; roasted turnips at another; vodka and potato chips at yet another (OK, that might have been at my place)).  (I turned down an invitation to spend the day with 12 vegetarian lesbians (or Vagitarians as they called themselves) so I cannot report on what they served.) 

But by far the strangest Thanksgiving menu I ever saw was at a then-friend’s place. As I tried to spoon the rather thick and gelatinous green bean casserole onto my plate I was told, “Oh, we make our green bean casserole with cream cheese.” Okay. (And yes, it tasted as good as it sounds.) Then, after I helped myself to turkey, I looked around for the gravy boat. There was none. Yep. No gravy. But the most heinous culinary crime was their potatoes. For this family, their tradition was to serve potato salad. On Thanksgiving.  If it wasn’t for the well-stocked liquor cabinet, I would have left then and there. Potato salad. On Thanksgiving. The very memory still sends shivers down my spine.