Lo! To be a one man Diaspora!

Thanksgiving may be my favorite holiday, despite the dirty dirty story that its fluffy tale of cooperation and friendship seeks to sweep under the carpet of our national consciousness. For this reason, you can imagine, that it was a little bit of a bummer to not be at home. However, at some point last week, I decided, that I’d be damned if I didn’t celebrate it. So, I went to the grocery store and constructed as authentic a menu as possible in this Thankless country. How’d I do? Well, first bummer, is no cranberries in France. I wasn’t even able to confirm their name in French. Everybody I talked to said that they had a vague idea of what fruit I was describing and each invariably gave me a different name for that tart little berry. Concession number two, my kitchen is itty bitty, and I didn’t really feel inspired to cook a grand feast for 10 so, turkey was out of the picture. I settled on an itty bitty chicken that was somewhere between the size of a cornish game hen and a normal chicken. The form, at least, evokes the image of that turkey ideal of which I am so fond. Stuffing, not a chance. Hot rolls, come on, I can’t make bread. I managed mashed potatoes with a pinch of salt and a dash of ingenuity. My kitchen is ever so poorly equipped – no electric mixer, and of course no potato masher. However, in the end I pulled through by cooking the hell out of those potatoes until they were so (nigh too) soft. Then I set about mashing those MF’s using only an empty, stout Dijon mustard jar. Delicious. Also, didn’t have a rolling pin. No problem, in the realm of pie baking, oh man, this wily veteran’s got some aces up the sleeve. A powdered balsamic vinegar bottle came through so big time, and my pumpkin and apple pies turned out not too bad, not too bad at all. Some green beans and some toasted French baguettes (that, I’ll be honest were more blackened than toasted, whoops) rounded out the menu. I shared the meal with three friends and we ate a veritable feast. There is an unfortunate French way in which to say, “I’m full”. It’s something like, “J’ai mangé jusqu’à ce que les dents du fond baignent.” Translation, I ate until my teeth in the back were swimming. Gross, but true, I guess. Afterward, I had that old familiar stupor and I almost wished there was a football game on the TV to watch - almost.