This was my third year in a row away from home for Thanksgiving. The past two years it seemed impractical to fly all the way home for just three days, so I visited friends and celebrated Thanksgiving with them (which was delightful! They were both so hospitable and kind). This year, of course, it would have been even more impractical to fly all the way home across the Atlantic—especially since I don’t have a Thanksgiving break in England.
Mansfield held a Thanksgiving Formal Hall dinner; admittedly I was a bit skeptical as to what they would serve. The menu consisted of: New England clam chowder (which I assume they served because of the “New England” in the title), turkey, pig-in-the-blankets (again: random), green beans, carrots, mashed potatoes, stuffing, cranberry sauce, and pumpkin pie with whipped cream. The potatoes were dry, the stuffing unique, the cranberry sauce was weird—like dried cranberries in a bowl with some cranberry juice at the bottom—and the pumpkin pie was actually a little pumpkin tart that was heavy on the crust and cinnamon with very little pumpkin.
Perhaps that seems overly-critical, but I just wanted to give you a picture of how it compares to typical American Thanksgiving dinner. The food was very good by anyone’s standards; I’ve just been quite spoiled by my home-cooked, huge Thanksgiving dinners at home. Really, I loved that they had a Thanksgiving dinner for us. It made me feel welcomed here at Oxford by the English in a way I haven’t felt since I’ve been here. Dinner was festive and fun and joyful. Everyone else cleared their plates completely, and in typical Ellie-fashion I left half the food unfinished (but I had had multiple servings of potatoes!), so everyone laughed and told me I wasn’t really American. I think I somewhat redeemed myself with my voracious pie eating, including a mountain of whipped cream on top. Excessive? I think not.
At the chapel service preceding dinner, we were asked what we were thankful for (pretty standard I think) and what traditions we missed from home. After telling myself I’ve been getting to used to being away for Thanksgiving, that it’s no big deal, everything came rushing back to me: making pumpkin pie with my mom, mashing the potatoes to perfection, driving over to my grandma’s with various dishes precariously perched on laps, between seats, on the dash board. I remembered vividly every year, for the majority of my life, that I have anticipated dinner and then finally, all fifteen to twenty of us crowd around the huge table, awkwardly crawling over chairs, elbows knocking together, trying to wedge oneself closer to the table. Then with a deep breath, we’re a cohesive family unit, arm to arm, knee to knee, diverse but clearly related, warmly ensconced around the table.
I remembered asking at least twelve times to be passed something or other and smiling at the sight of the butter melting in golden rivers down the potatoes, my grandma carving the succulent turkey, the warm rolls, the cranberry and spinach salad, the Waldorf salad, the corn—on and on and on the dishes circled the table. My grandma always brings out her beautiful china and fine glasses for Thanksgiving. After stuffing ourselves mercilessly, I usually drink a cup of coffee—which I only really do on Thanksgiving and Christmas. Then we sweep around the table to share what we’re thankful for and dig into the pie and various desserts.
Somehow, too, I remember our cousin tradition of sprawling in food comas around the living room. A few years ago, my sister laid on my Grandma’s red velvet couch that is a centrepiece in her home and classic in our family, and I jokingly laid down on top of her. Then came one of my brothers, and five or six of my cousins for a massive dog pile on the couch—after we had just eaten copious, ridiculous amounts of food. I remember struggling to breathe, my face turning red, squealing, laughing, and we all fell down.
I don’t know what it is, exactly, that took me from being totally blasé about being away from home and then suddenly immersed me in a poignant homesickness. Dinner brought me back out of it to some extent. Following dinner, we had drinks and watched American football in the JCR (Junior Common Room—where everyone hangs out at college). Then we walked home and my friends and I made puppy chow. I know, I know—we couldn’t eat anything else or risk exploding and then make puppy chow? But it was the perfect end to the night. My mom brought me Chex and the ingredients to make puppy chow when she visited last week, and my friends and I usually make puppy chow at Georgetown. So while we crowded around the little table in my kitchen and indulged in the peanut-buttery-chocolately deliciousness, I remembered my family and home with joy; I thought of Georgetown with a smile; and I looked around the table to appreciate all the new friends I’ve been blessed with this year.
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