I was once asked by an American colleague of mine if the French celebrated Thanksgiving the way we do. I answered as politely as I could, “the Americans do, yes.” For many Americans who find themselves overseas and away from the “good ol’ US of A” nothing brings them closer to home then celebrating Thanksgiving, whether with friends or family, in one part of the world or another. Expat Americans miss this holiday and will do just about anything to scrounge up a turkey or something that could pass for a turkey, sweet potatoes, cranberry sauce (in a can) and whatever else we feel we need to celebrate this day. In some instances, putting together the key items for the meal is easier said than done. I can recall celebrating past Thanksgivings in the heart of Africa, France, Belgium, and later as an adult in Switzerland and Spain, I was in a Super Mercado in the South of Spain trying to find cramberry sauce and canned yams. Wherever you find yourself on this planet, remember to be sure and invite friends who may have absolutely no idea what Thanksgiving, and the meaning of Thanksgiving, is all about.
Now to shine a lighter note, I simply could not, in all good conscience, let Thanksgiving Day pass me by without bringing this wonderfully amusing article written by Art Buchwald, a humorist and columnist. He wrote it in 1952 while he was working in France for the International Herald Tribune. The “Trib” regularly republished it each year thereafter. I can recall quite clearly my father reading the “Trib” wherever we where in the world at that time and exclaiming “oh for goodness sake’s, Buckwald’s article is in the paper again this year. You would think people would be tired of reading this silly story.” He falsely complained of course, then proceeded to re-read the story and yes, as always, read portions aloud, laugh, chuckle and at times, gasp in theatrical horror.
So without further ado, and in the spirit of sharing on Thanksgiving, here is Art Buckwalds “Le Jour de Merci Donnant.”
Le Jour de Merci Donnant
Le Grande Thanksgiving
By Art Buchwald
Paris — 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 (now 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 étudiant), 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.