I’ve lived my entire life in America, but until adulthood, I never celebrated Thanksgiving the way American culture dictates you’re supposed to. My mother didn’t believe in cooking elaborate meals, and she didn’t get along with extended family well enough to feel thankful about holiday dinners they chose to host. So, because on Thanksgiving, everyone else gets a big meal cooked by some body else, each year we’d go out to eat. Usually this was at a pizzeria around the corner.
One year the tradition was broken on behalf of a family friend inviting my family out to dinner. Into NYC we drove, into the murky depths of Astoria, Queens, eventually pulling into the otherwise deserted parking lot of a Chinese restaurant. This was certainly not going to be the Thanksgiving of Norman Rockwell paintings either, but it was a change from the usual pizza.
Crispy duck stood in for a turkey. Fried wonton noodles pretended to be stuffing, and a bowl of sweet and sour sauce was our gravy. Broccoli in brown sauce replaced green bean casserole. The slices of orange that came before our check were close enough to cranberry sauce. It was the closest to a traditional Thanksgiving dinner I had gotten. In truth, it was the first time I got anyone to go around the table and give thanks, even if my father gave thanks that they had real utensils, and not just chopsticks.
Looking back on that Thanksgiving, it was the kind of memory that could only have been made in a place like NYC. In most places, there’s nowhere open on Thanksgiving except the dining rooms of those close to you. But in NY, you can always find a venue for recreating a tradition your own way.
