For many families, the secular holiday of Thanksgiving is so inextricably bound up in the idea of a turkey dinner that some folks even refer to it as Turkey Day.  The notion of turkey is so prevalent that it has even given rise to vegetarian turkey substitutes such as Tofurky.  Now, I confess that I've never eaten Tofurky, and I find the idea less than appealing.  I have no objection to tofu, as I both eat it and cook with it, but I do object to the increasing production of faux meat that purports to mimic the things that we like about meat - taste and texture for the most part.

It is not the idea of vegetarianism or substitution that poses the problem.  I do eat many vegetarian meals, but doubt that any circumstance short of force would make me adopt it as a lifestyle.  However, it's the idea of subterfuge, the sly notion of pulling a fast one over your palate and stomach that I find unappealing.

It's a little like the great carob caper.  In the 1970s, many health conscious mothers tried to fool their children into thinking that carob was equal to chocolate, or "just like chocolate."  Now, as any kid who has ever bitten into a cookie made from carob knows, this comparison is desperately inaccurate.  This shouldn't come as a surprise, since children have quite sensitive palates that generally have not been addled by years of over salted food and other taste bud killers, such as cigarettes.  Trying, and failing to convince children that carob was an acceptable substitute for chocolate simply fosters a distrust and resentment of "healthy" foods, of substitutions in general, and perhaps even creates or widens a trust-rift between the generations.

The saddest thing about it is that the deception is completely unnecessary.  My mother gave us carob chip cookies, but they were simply presented as a new item, along side the chocolate chip, the oatmeal coconut, and the gingersnaps.  They were eaten with a similar enthusiasm, because we weren't afraid that we'd never see our beloved chocolate chip again, and therefore had no reason to resent the newcomer.  And, if they didn't become a favourite, well, I never really warmed up to peanut butter cookies, either.  Carob certainly doesn't elicit the same reaction from me as I've observed in some of my peers.

We understand, almost instinctively, why chocolate is so important to kids.  Why then, is turkey so intrinsic to Thanksgiving that we feel the need to provide an artificial substitute for those who cannot, or choose not to eat poultry?  Why not serve a stuffed squash, or some other centerpiece that doesn't need to pretend to be something that it's not?  Well, of course one can do that, but the quick-and-dirty answer why they often don't is... tradition.

Most North Americans have been indoctrinated with the standard propaganda that surrounds the history of the first Thanksgiving, and how the native people of this continent generously shared their harvest bounty (including the native turkey) with the hapless pilgrims, beginning a long relationship of European settlers benefiting from this new land at the expense of its indigenous inhabitants.  But without dwelling on whatever socio-political injustices, past or present, may have given rise to the holiday, for most people Thanksgiving has become a holiday that celebrates harvest and family.  Turkey is a natural centerpiece as it is large enough to feed extended families and is a uniquely North American product with broad flavour appeal.

The image of a happy family sitting around a golden-brown stuffed turkey with all of the trimmings is so powerful that some families seem to feel pressure to recreate the Thanksgiving meals of their childhoods, right down to including vegetables that they don't like.  For many, brussels sprouts only put in an appearance on Thanksgiving which may prompt a sense of gratitude that this is a singular event.  That may be because they don't know the secret of roasting the sprouts in chicken fat, but I digress.

The brunt of preparation and burden of living up to an idealized notion of culinary perfection often falls on the women in the house.  Expectations are high, and stress-levels reach a three-brandy high as the almost intolerable pressures mount.  Stressed out cooks labour to produce a feast that will satisfy the family's hunger for a sense of fulfilled tradition as well as filled bellies can become a juggling act of frustration, and when you add in the extended family and conflicting traditions, it almost looks like the whole event is more trouble than it's worth.  Or, at least that is the impression that I have from hearing friends talk about their families, and countless cinematic and televised farces featuring holiday dinners gone desperately wrong: the relative who drinks too much and insults everyone before passing out or throwing up or both; the classic turkey disasters featuring underdone birds, or ones that hit the floor once or twice before making it to the table; the tendency for big secrets to be leaked or announcements to be made at the table, sending everyone into shock or dismay; and the fussy in-laws who act disagreeably and criticize everything the cook does under the guise of helping.  That last one I've witnessed first hand, although they weren't my in-laws, for which I am very thankful indeed.

I like to have Thanksgiving with my family, but I also like the Thanksgiving dinner at the VineYard restaurant, which is where I'm almost certain to be found if the family is not getting together any given year.  In fact, I've discovered to my glee that the restaurant also often offers a full Thanksgiving dinner on the American Thanksgiving in November, which is eminently sensible this close to the border.  I usually try to sneak in another hit of turkey and their delicious stuffing at that time, too.  Just doing my part to promote cross-border understanding, you see.  Sometimes, as with this year, I manage to have one Thanksgiving dinner with my family, and another one at the VineYard.

My family has so far avoided the kind of stress and veiled hostility that seems to be par-for-the-holiday-course.  The dinner itself is usually a cooperative affair, with one head-cook driving and several helpers.  None of us are so mired in particular traditions that small changes can't be made, and no one fusses if something doesn't go quite right.  It usually goes right-enough.  If one person dreads making one part of the meal, another will step in.  There are plenty of willing hands to peel potatoes or slice carrots, or cross-hatch the brussels sprouts.  And, when we all sit down to a delicious meal that everyone has participated in some fashion in preparing, the meal and the occasion are something for which I really am thankful.

October 2004