Three Thanksgivings

---and Cultural (Mis)appropriations

For my family, friends, and virtual Substack comrades and supporters, with enormous gratitude today and every day.

Turkeys and turkey chow mein

My father loves to tell the story about how he got his driving license. He was living alone in New York, working as a waiter in a New Jersey restaurant, trying to save enough money to send for my mother, my brother and me, left behind in Hong Kong. His driving test was close to Thanksgiving. And reading the room, he worries he didn’t pass. He asks the inspector--you like turkey? Reading between the lines, the inspector says you a wise guy, but then, how big a turkey? My father always laughs at this part as he demonstrates holding both arms wide, BIG turkey! Despite his limited English, my father understood turkeys, Thanksgiving, and proudly working the system.

Later, my family ran a small Chinese take-out that was open seven days a week for many years. My father was very proud of it, especially his own cooking. If he knew what it was, he would have given the restaurant a Michelin one star rating. Once he was stopped by highway police for drag racing at night. They asked for his license and registration, then looked at my brother and me huddled in the back seat, in our pajamas. My father responded to this predicament by demanding do you know WHO I am. You know Tommy’s China Kitchen on Old Country Road? I’m Tommy. Clearly, the officers were unimpressed. Undeterred, my father continued, you come. Anytime. I take good care of you. Good Chinese food. I do not recall any speeding tickets issued.

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On the kitchen wall, my father taped a magazine photo. On a sandy beach, two people are relaxing in deckchairs, watching the sunset melting into the ocean. He would say that’s your mom and me one day. In the meantime, for years, my mother rolled hundreds of eggrolls and wrapped hundreds of wontons. After school, my older brother worked in the kitchen, and I would either take care of my little brother or help-out at the cash register. Before an oncoming rush hour, my father would shout orders, soldiers, get ready for war! Later, I learned how my father had survived the war. After he was buried in a pit of the wounded and the dead, he waited until night and silence descended before climbing out.

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One year, my father decided to introduce turkey chow mein for Thanksgiving. He thought it would be like New Year’s Eve, when there were huge orders of fried rice, spareribs and eggrolls – perfect party food. He said Americans love turkey and people love our Chinese food. But predictably, there were almost no customers on Thanksgiving Day, leaving huge vats of unsold turkey chow mein.

A Horn and Hardart’s Thanksgiving

One year, our neighbor, the Lynches, seeing we were alone, invited my little brother and me to their family Thanksgiving dinner. It was so foreign, a house full of Irish relatives, a huge turkey, candied yams, mash potatoes, pies, and lots of warm noise. I imagined, one day, my family will have a real American Thanksgiving, just like this.

After the turkey chow mein debacle, my father understood Chinese food was not on the menu for Thanksgiving. The next year, he decided to close the take-out and take the family into the city for Thanksgiving. The city! Dressed in my new gray wool coat from the big department store Martin’s, and wearing real stockings, I didn’t mind my freezing feet. I felt like a princess, a Disney princess, an American princess. We visited the Rockefeller Center Tree, all lit up reaching endlessly into the night sky, watched happy people ice skating, and then settled into a Horn and Hardart’s for the Thanksgiving dinner special. We had arrived, finally.

Established in 1902, Horn and Hardart’s was a revolutionary automat chain with self-serving vending machines. More than just an inexpensive place to eat, it was viewed as “a culinary treasure, a technical marvel, and an emblem of the times.” (theautomat.net) So there we were in an almost empty Horn and Hardart’s, with only a few old people, each eating alone. Some glanced over at us, conspicuous as the only family and a Chinese one. We got the full turkey specials and ate while my father’s loud jokes echoed in the empty sad space. This was definitely not dinner at the Lynches.

Soy Turkey time. Or no thanks

Over the years, the family settled into gathering at my house for Thanksgiving, since I have the longest table where we can all sit together, to have a somewhat civilized meal and not the scattered, standing up eating style, which is a signature of Hom meals. Given my notorious lack of cooking skills, everyone shares in the preparation of different dishes. But I have, to everyone’s surprise managed a couple of dishes—my special winter melon soup and candied yams.

One year, I decided to draw a vegetarian line. No meat. I would make a soy turkey out of lentils, toufu, and shape it like a turkey. Unfortunately, it came out of the oven, a hard, flat tray of…well, whatever it was. Only my dear friend and godfather of my niece, asked for a second slice. That’s a real friend my father laughed, but then he complained, what, no turkey? Where’s the turkey?! My sister-in-law, she who solves all problems calmly, quietly, without fuss, had simply roasted a turkey at their house, divided it up into portions for the family to take home. She said, Dad, I cooked it, your portions are in the car. Later, I noticed my father was gone a long time. I asked, where’s dad, is he ok? I found him out in the driveway, in the car, sampling his roast turkey leg.

This year, the second year in a row, the family has (reluctantly if I am honest), agreed to no turkey, no meat dinner, as long as also NO soy turkey. We have arrived at our own version of American Thanksgiving. But throughout the usual noise of everyone talking at the same, no one listening, there is always a sadness for me. Thanksgiving Day is also the anniversary of my mother’s birth. For years before she passed away, my mother was bedridden and would lie alone at home, waiting for her favorites--sweet potatoes, stuffing, and choice turkey pieces that we wrapped for her. Thanksgiving Day is also the day I returned from China with Misha, a kitten I rescued from a Beijing alley. My beloved unique Misha lived 20 years. When he died years ago, I could not imagine being in a world that did not have Misha in it. His story is still waiting to be told, when my heart is ready.

But here I am still, in a world increasingly on fire and so very broken. Still, today, I pause to hold gratitude in my heart. I am grateful for my family --- they truly deserve a Homs-at-Home sitcom, written just for them, starring them as themselves, except for me. I’d like Joan Chen to play a glamorous (finally!) version of me. I am grateful for my friends who generously put up with me. I am grateful for all the animals, especially the felines, who have found me. I am grateful for all the warrior comrades on this platform still fighting the good fight, sharing their writing, joint actions, keeping the spirit of resistance alive in these dark times. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

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Amidst the noise of the world, the greatest gift we can give each other is our full attention. Heart hearts to my subscribers and followers – for your time and generous support. You keep me reading, writing and hopeful!

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