Cornbread and Cranberries: A Very Paris Thanksgiving
Our first year living in Paris, we were very excited to be invited to celebrate with The American Club of Paris, at a location on rue Saint-Honoré next to the Elysée Palace . The dinner was one week before Thanksgiving, and we were looking forward to meeting some other Americans and enjoying a beautiful setting. What we discovered was most of the attendees that evening were much older than us, French, and loved everything American: not a bad thing, just not what we expected. The dinner was cooked and served in a very traditional historic salon, and TBG and I were the only Americans at our table. The food was delicious, the salon was tres grande, and the company fun and entertaining.
And then came the grande finale, dessert: a large square of cornbread covered in a pool of cranberry sauce.
As we first looked silently, then started to laugh out loud, our dinner companions questioned us: why are we laughing? Apparently they all thought cornbread and cranberries was a traditional American dessert. The French thought it strange, but apparently served this every year. Were we the first to comment? We’ll never know…
A week later, TBG and I hosted our own Thanksgiving dinner for 10 (plus a 2 week-old baby) chez nous. As Thanksgiving is an American holiday, all the men (sexist, but true) had to work, so cocktails were at 7, and dinner was scheduled at 8pm so everyone would have time to arrive after late French workdays. Everyone brought a dessert, and Moi shopped and cooked. And encountered Thanksgiving Paris Problems.
- Paris Problem 1: I ordered a 6 kilo turkey from Thanksgiving, an American grocery and restaurant in Le Marais. When I went to pick it up on Wednesday, it turned out to be a 10 kilo turkey: 22lbs. A little bigger than I’d planned. For reasons that I still cannot explain, I carried thru my plan to take 2 métros home, followed by a walk from Place des Ternes to avenue Niel carrying a 22lb turkey. Why I did not take a taxi I do not know.
- Paris Problem 2: French ovens are not very big. So the turkey did not fit in the oven. (Nor in the mini micro-wave oven, bien sur.) So early in the morning I put the turkey in the oven, propped the door shut with a chair, and eventually it cooked down enough to shut the oven door. It took hours, but the turkey cooked beautifully.
- Paris Problem 3: Cornbread and Cranberries. Despite having feasted superbly the week before on cornbread and cranberries, I couldn’t find them in the grocery. I looked everywhere for cornmeal, and I wanted fresh cranberries, not canned, which I could have easily gotten at Thanksgiving (the store, not the holiday). So, on Sunday before T-Day I began the market troll: trolling all the neighborhood épiceries, marchés, outdoor markets: MonoPrix, Casino, Carrefour, Ed, G20, Shopi, Leader Price, marché Ternes: no fresh cranberries, no cornmeal. Checked Picard for frozen cranberries. Nothing.
Next, more American and International groceries: The Real McCoy, The General Store, Marks and Spencer. Finally, after visiting all the markets and groceries within a 2 mile walking radius, I found cornmeal (polenta! It finally occured to me to look in the Italian stores!) and fresh cranberries (l’airelle, from Germany: much smaller than American cranberries, but they worked!)
- Paris Problem 4: baking. Naturally no canned pumpkin was available, but there were plenty of whole pumpkins for sale, so I brought home a pumpkin, cut and cooked it, no problem (this major American feast did prompt me to bring back a Better Homes and Gardens Cookbook from our next home leave at Christmas). Pecan pie was a little more difficult: the French don’t have American-style brown sugar, vereoise looks similar but cooks very differently. But again, with a little Golden Syrup (no Karo syrup) the pecan pie turned out great.
- Paris Problem 5: no garbage disposal. Now we’d been living in this apartment for months, and of course I knew there was no garbage disposal (almost non-existent in French kitchens, an American-style kitchen was a real coupe!). But somehow in all the craziness and confusion of trying to cook this big American dinner in a tiny French kitchen, bad habits took over and I apparently started chucking things in the sink, because I got a big old fashioned clogged kitchen sink, which my plunger could not conquer. The good news was Thanksgiving was not a French holiday, so I was able to find la gardienne and she called an emergency plumber who arrived in less than 2 hours, and for just over 500 francs, voila! Non Problem.
Our guests arrived on schedule: most of the wives around 7 to drink wine and talk about what the days’ adventures in Paris had been, the men arriving shortly after. Dinner was served at 8, everything was delicious, served hot and accompanied by lots of wine, laughter and stories of family and friends back home; and new family and friends in Paris. By 12:05 everyone was up from the table, and rushing out the door to catch the last métro home.
TBG and I were at home. Celebrating Thanksgiving in Paris with our new family. And cornbread and cranberries, bien sur!
Moi note: Every year we were in Paris, and long before, The International Herald Tribune reprinted a column by Art Buchwald. He’s no longer with us, but his words will make us smile once again this Thanksgiving. This reprint ran several years ago in the IHT.
Bon Appétit, Art
Chacun à son goût, or why we eat turkey
Art Buchwald
Published: Wednesday, November 23, 2005
Mrs. Paris Singer was attending a garage sale in Bethesda when she came across a yellowed newspaper clipping dated 1952. It was titled “Explaining Thanksgiving to the French.” She bought it for $10. Much to her surprise, when she took it to an expert at the Library of Congress, he told her it was a collector’s item, and there were only five of them left in the world. It was valued at $80,000. It now hangs in Mrs. Singer’s living room under glass.
One of our most important holidays is Thanksgiving Day, known in France as le Jour de Merci Donnant.
Le Jour de Merci Donnant was first started by a group of Pilgrims (Pèlerins) who fled from l’Angleterre before the McCarran Act to found a colony in the New World (le Nouveau Monde) where they could shoot Indians (les Peaux-Rouges) and eat turkey (dinde) to their heart’s content.
They landed at a place called Plymouth (a famous voiture Américaine) in a wooden sailing ship called the Mayflower (or Fleur de Mai) in 1620. But while the Pèlerins were killing the dindes, the Peaux-Rouges were killing the Pèlerins, and there were several hard winters ahead for both of them. The only way the Peaux-Rouges helped the Pèlerins was when they taught them to grow corn (maïs). The reason they did this was because they liked corn with their Pèlerins.
In 1623, after another harsh year, the Pèlerins’ crops were so good that they decided to have a celebration and give thanks because more maïs was raised by the Pèlerins than Pèlerins were killed by Peaux-Rouges.
Every year on the Jour de Merci Donnant, parents tell their children an amusing story about the first celebration.
It concerns a brave capitaine named Miles Standish (known in France as Kilomètres Deboutish) and a young, shy lieutenant named Jean Alden. Both of them were in love with a flower of Plymouth called Priscilla Mullens (no translation). The vieux capitaine said to the jeune lieutenant:
“Go to the damsel Priscilla (allez très vite chez Priscilla), the loveliest maiden of Plymouth (la plus jolie demoiselle de Plymouth). Say that a blunt old captain, a man not of words but of action (un vieux Fanfan la Tulipe), offers his hand and his heart, the hand and heart of a soldier. Not in these words, you know, but this, in short, is my meaning.
“I am a maker of war (je suis un fabricant de la guerre) and not a maker of phrases. You, bred as a scholar (vous, qui êtes pain comme un etudiant), can say it in elegant language, such as you read in your books of the pleadings and wooings of lovers, such as you think best adapted to win the heart of the maiden.”
Although Jean was fit to be tied (convenable à être emballé), friendship prevailed over love and he went to his duty. But instead of using elegant language, he blurted out his mission. Priscilla was muted with amazement and sorrow (rendue muette par l’étonnement et la tristesse).
At length she exclaimed, interrupting the ominous silence: “If the great captain of Plymouth is so very eager to wed me, why does he not come himself and take the trouble to woo me?” (Où est-il, le vieux Kilomètres? Pourquoi ne vient-il pas auprès de moi pour tenter sa chance?)
Jean said that Kilomètres Deboutish was very busy and didn’t have time for those things. He staggered on, telling what a wonderful husband Kilomètres would make. Finally Priscilla arched her eyebrows and said in a tremulous voice, “Why don’t you speak for yourself, Jean?” (Chacun à son goût.)
And so, on the fourth Thursday in November, American families sit down at a large table brimming with tasty dishes, and for the only time during the year eat better than the French do.
No one can deny that le Jour de Merci Donnant is a grande fête and no matter how well fed American families are, they never forget to give thanks to Kilomètres Deboutish, who made this great day possible.
2 comments
I get cornmeal at the bio stores (semoule de mais). Polenta tends to be finer, and the instant does not work. Wish you were with us this year!
moi aussi…I’m cooking Thanksgiving dinner tomorrow, and believe it or not I had to go to 4 stores before I found cranberries. Didn’t know they’d sell out…but I got them!
Guests for dinner, then watch ND (lose?) final game of the season
bisous
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