My cousins were born and bred in Italy. They eat pasta like rigatoni and ditalini, kiss their fingers when describing food, zip dangerously around on Vespas and live for their “football” team. And yet, because their mother is American, technically they are as well. Though sometimes their English is less than perfect, such as when they substitute the word “spongie” for wedgie, they can hum, if not sing, “The Star Spangled Banner” and eat apple pie with the best of them.
So, when they visit my family in Michigan every summer, we aim to show them a good old American time and help to integrate them into our life in the States. They thought they had a handle on our culture by cruising the mall, buying in bulk and playing mini-golf. But because they only visit in the summer months, they miss some important American traditions. And so, after years of warm weather visits, my family knew we had to go the extra mile: if they would not come to the United States in the fall, we were going to have to bring it to them. Right around the time the furniture stores had their “Christmas in July” sales, we undertook to create “Thanksgiving in July.”
Thanksgiving in July, as you can imagine, is a very tricky process. Pumpkins are not so plentiful, those warty, colorful and ridiculously tiny gourds are difficult to locate and don’t even get me started on finding a cornucopia. But my mother was prepared with a small army of wooden turkeys, cranberry-colored candles and potatoes ripe for the mashing. Unfortunately, due to slight differences of seasonal bounty, some dishes had to be modified in order to be present at our feast, such as the aptly named summer squashes that replaced the autumnal acorn squash. Despite these complications, we persevered.
With heaps of tubers, pumpkin pies baking and the turkey basting, we turned our attentions to wardrobe. My dad couldn’t go without his favorite turkey sweater, reminiscent of Colin Firth’s reindeer jumper in the movie “Bridget Jones’ Diary,” and my mother refused to imagine eating Thanksgiving dinner without her autumn leaf print turtleneck. Anyone who has a mother over the age of 45 knows that the combination of turtlenecks and the summer months is a recipe for a disaster known as “the hot flash.” Though Michigan is further north than D.C., even the North Pole’s summer is not cold enough to repel the advance of this particular natural disaster. The air conditioning was turned up and the Thanksgiving simulation continued.
I think my cousins got a little lost in the bustle as we rushed about the house putting up decorations, finding our winter clothes and looking for a video of the Detroit Lions playing their traditional Thanksgiving Day American football game. I’m not sure, but I think in the excitement someone suggested that we spray paint the trees aroun d our house in shades of yellow, orange and red. And when we sat down to dinner my cousins still looked slightly confused at the little men with belt buckle hats sitting on our table.
Explanations about Thanksgiving ensued throughout the dinner and when third helpings had been dished out and pumpkin pies devoured, my family sat back, pleased with the show we had put on. For whether you are native to America or Europe and whether it is July or November, that delicious you-might-never-move-again sick feeling is just as sweet.
