The Thanksgiving I Longed for Canned Cranberry Sauce

(I don't like canned cranberry sauce)

In Ireland, the moment Halloween ends the Christmas decorations go up. For my Irish colleagues and friends, this is very exciting. Now is the time to begin getting into the Holiday spirit: to stock up on hot cocoa, to deck the halls, and to draft Christmas lists. To book tickets to festive concerts and to go watch the holiday light shows dance across Dublin’s monuments. The local radio station may even begin to mix a few Christmas carols into the daily soundtracks. 

But for me, the dispatched American who still can’t figure out which way to look before crossing the street, this feels all wrong. What about the tacky turkey decorations and cornucopia-style décor? What about pie orders and piles of yams in the grocery stores? What about booking flights and trains home to see loved ones and double checking pantries for the necessary stuffing seasonings? I suddenly feel strongly that Christmas—the decorations, the songs, and the festivities—simply cannot begin until Santa appears on his float as the caboose to the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. Or maybe we should even wait until after a canine has been bestowed with the prestigious title of Best in Show at the National Dog Show. After years of never caring much for Thanksgiving, I now mourn its absence.

It’s not that I ever disliked Thanksgiving, it’s just that Thanksgiving was never something I necessarily looked forward to. Growing up dividing my time between my divorced parents, Thanksgiving—like most major holidays—epitomized my back and forth lifestyle. Just as we transitioned between parents' houses during the weeks, each Thanksgiving my sister and I alternated between spending it with either Mom or Dad.

Because of this constant rotation, when I reflect on Thanksgivings of my past, it is hard to even discern tradition amidst the consistently haphazard celebrations. For many people, Thanksgiving Day is synonymous with annual happenings such as Uncle Bill attempting to fry a Turkey in the backyard while Cousin Patricia leads the Turkey Trot participants in their annual 5k (shame on you, Cousin Patricia). But I only really know of these rituals from friends’ Instagram stories, which I wistfully click through on Thanksgiving Day, unable to exactly relate. My Thanksgivings lack any systematic organization. 

During childhood, there were a handful of more “classic” Thanksgivings spent on the farm my father grew up on in Cincinnati, Ohio, with a table full of extended family members. Yet as time has progressed, the logistics of everyone gathering in Ohio became more complicated. Now, when with my dad, we invite my Nana to a smaller Thanksgiving meal. We cook for her as she cooked for her family for many, many Thanksgivings. This version of Thanksgiving is a simple day: just my father, sister, grandmother, and myself around a table.

There have been even smaller Thanksgiving celebrations than this: a meal with just my sister, a parent, and myself present—which hardly feels like anything outside of an ordinary dinner, besides the fact there is a copious amount of food prepared by the awkward hour of 3pm. And then there was the time my dad and I found ourselves in London for Thanksgiving, just the two of us, due to an important business conference and a sister stuck at home with a concussion. There was a Thanksgiving when my mother took my sister and me to a country resort an hour from home for a sort of staycation—no cooking required from her. Sometimes we find ourselves hosting a lone family friend in need of companionship. I recall Thanksgivings when we have gone to a family friend’s house, in need of our own companionship. 

My sister and dad on Thanksgiving in the early 2000s. This Thanksgiving my sister refused to take off her pilgrim costume all week.

On top of the constant change of scenery and company, the menu every Thanksgiving also remains open ended. In recent years, for example, my sister and I decided we actually prefer a rotisserie chicken over a turkey. As my sister developed her passion for baking, decadent chocolate mousse or salted chocolate chip cookies replaced apple pies. In London, my father and I found a restaurant serving dry Turkey legs. A good effort, I suppose.

Despite canned cranberry sauce never being an assured (or much liked) factor on Thanksgiving Day, I now find myself in Dublin craving its acidity against that of the juicy turkey. I realize I am viscerally angry as I watch a supermarket employee stack up a display of Advent Calendars, and hold myself back from yelling: “How can we start counting down to Christmas when it isn’t even December yet?!” I suddenly notice the lack of pumpkin puree in the grocery store, and feel sad about it. When I hear it is sold at a gourmet market a mile away in Dublin, I march there on my day off of work, determined to acquire the key ingredient to a recipe I lack. 

“America’s Finest,” apparently.

This year, I will find my own pocket of Thanksgiving spirit on this side of the Atlantic. Over the weekend I will travel to London to have a traditional Thanksgiving meal with one of my closest childhood friends and her sisters (what’s up with me celebrating Thanksgiving in the country the holiday partially commemorates separation from?). Next week, my roommate and I have invited a group of new friends, American and Irish, to sit around our table for a potluck-style Thanksgiving feast. But these are not substitutes to Thanksgiving Day; they are, rather, slightly belated “Friendsgivings.” Plus, when they occur, they will technically be within the realm of the Allison Approved Christmas Celebration Allotted Period™. 

Thanksgiving Day, this year, simply is not the same. But what even qualifies “the same?” What is it that I miss when I can hardly nail down a single tradition?  

Perhaps, I realize, the answer is in the question. I miss the tradition of having no real tradition. I miss knowing that—although I will not necessarily sit at the same table each year, or even find myself with the same company—I will almost certainly have my sister by my side (spare the concussion year), for she is the one who has been by my side for every transition in my life— on Thanksgiving or otherwise. I miss knowing that, although the food will not look identical every Thanksgiving, the effort that goes into it will. I miss the fact that, no matter what the context, there is a mandated day to be grateful for the little things. 

My sister showing off her Thanksgiving cookies.

And yet, hasn’t this tradition of Thanksgiving Day being tradition-less been continued in its own way this year?

This year, on Thanksgiving, I went to work and was greeted by my co-workers who usually wouldn’t notice anything special about today besides it being the last Thursday of the month, but who made the effort to wish me Happy Thanksgiving nonetheless. I was thankful for my co-workers in that moment. Later, we all went out for Indian food for lunch, which felt like its own sort of feast with its own sort of effort put into it. I was thankful for the staff of the Indian food restaurant in that moment.

Walking back to the office with my coworkers after our Indian food feast.

After work I packed my bags for my trip to London, and treated myself to takeout. I was thankful for my ability to travel and for friends to visit and for takeout I could afford. Then I FaceTimed my Dad and sister, who are spending Thanksgiving in yet another unusual circumstance: with my Nana, my stepsister’s boyfriend (sans stepsister), and my Canadian boyfriend (sans me). [It is worth noting that my boyfriend, James, has been incredibly eager about attending a proper American thanksgiving, and has spent the last few days panicking over whether or not to bring cheese or pie, white or red wine, and a bone or “pupcake” for the dogs (he went with a pupcake). When he arrived at my home, I am told my father promptly put him to work chopping wood in the backyard. “Tradition,” my Dad explained to James. I do not recall ever chopping wood on Thanksgiving.] Anyway, in that moment on our FaceTime call, I was thankful to be adjacently included in my dad and sister’s classically chaotic Thanksgiving plans; thankful for a sister who remains virtually by my side; thankful for a boyfriend who sees the joy in a holiday I often take for granted; thankful for a healthy grandmother; thankful for a loving father; thankful to be a part of a welcoming home. 

This year, I am thankful for the tradition of lacking tradition. Thankful that Thanksgiving is not the same, for life continues to evolve and take new forms. Thankful that there is something to miss in the first place. 

FaceTiming my family (plus a few newcomers) from Dublin.

ADDENDUM: After writing this on Thanksgiving day, riots began taking in Dublin city center following a horrific attack on Thursday, down the street from my workplace. I am especially thankful for the safety of my friends, colleagues, and myself, and praying for the safety of the rest of this beautiful city and its people.