By DAVID IZRAELEVITZ
Los Alamos County Council
The Izraelevitz family is anxiously preparing for the first family Thanksgiving dinner since before the COVID pandemic. Much has changed since then, including the arrival of three grandchildren, two of which, accompanied by their parents, will visit Los Alamos to share in the holiday.
As I count the days until then, I thought about this essay that I wrote some time ago, as it describes how much this holiday means to me, and to many other families, including immigrant families, for whom this is a new, and wonderful experience.
Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!
THANKSGIVING DAY
“The only time we close is for Thanksgiving.”
Many years ago, while traveling through a city I have long forgotten, I had stopped for dinner at a Chinese restaurant where I overheard the owner chatting with a departing couple. “You’re not closed for New Year’s?” the man persisted. The owner’s heavy accent seemed to thicken with his emphasis. “We only close for Thanksgiving. It’s the only day.”
This time of year always brings back to memory that brief exchange. I never found out why Thanksgiving Day was the only special day for this family. Maybe the reason is as ordinary as the lack of Chinese takeout business on this day. But somehow deep inside, I believe that Thanksgiving holds a special place in the hearts of immigrants, as it did for my family when we came to America.
My father, a careful observer of American culture, thought that Thanksgiving Day was one of its greatest inventions, a universal time to celebrate family and the goodness that life can bring. Other holidays with similar themes, like Christmas and Passover, are not celebrated by every American family, and patriotic days like the Fourth of July or Memorial Day require a historical perspective that new Americans absorb over time as they shed their previous alternatives. But Thanksgiving, he thought we can celebrate with sincerity and fervor the moment we step on American soil. It was to him The American Holiday, unique to America and uniquely American.
Turkey itself, however, took some cultural adjustment. Growing up in Uruguay, beef was king and cheap and as much a daily staple as bread, and chicken was the featured meat reserved for holidays. I am positive that the first time I ate turkey meat was on American soil, and moreover, cranberries were so foreign to me and my family that I am still not sure what is the Spanish equivalent, if there is one. I remember my mother as a very intuitive and creative cook, and if not gourmet, someone who delighted in making adjustments to recipes that would fit any preference or dietary restriction. However, preparing a turkey and stuffing was something so fraught with possible danger (imagine ruining a 20-dollar piece of meat!) that she did not dare to experiment at all and relied religiously on magazine recipes and neighbors for strict guidance. I suspect that is why along with the traditional Thanksgiving menu, she would always add some familiar dish from the old country, an island of familiarity in the middle of a bizarre and dangerous culinary ocean.
To immigrants, the holiday of Thanksgiving, with its imagery of Pilgrims and Indians breaking bread together in abundance and friendship, is the symbol of the opportunity offered by a new land, the promise of success through hard work, the eventual acceptance and respect between native and foreign that immigrants pine for. I can imagine, at dinner on a Thanksgiving Day long ago, a happy if tired Chinese family, boisterous conversation around the table substituting for the shouting of orders in a now silent commercial kitchen. In the middle I see two dishes within reach, an All-American turkey and stuffing centerpiece, a symbol of all that is fresh and full of promise, a communal bowl of Szechuan pork and rice, a symbol of what is comfortable and that harkens to tradition and a home and family that is, at the same time, painfully missed, and the cranberry sauce, forlorn in the corner, waiting for someone to try just a bit.
