Today is Thanksgiving.  In the States.  As a Canadian, I snort at this as everybody knows Thanksgiving is really in October…

My parents emigrated to Canada from Trinidad in the late ’50s.  I estimate that they must have celebrated around 40 years worth of (Canadian) Thanksgivings before they passed away.  I remember family and friends and laughter and serious, serious cooking.  I remember it being about celebrating the abundance of harvest as well as being thankful for all that we, as a family, had.  I was about query what my parents must have made of this very North American event – this enormous focus on turkey.  But if it was about being thankful, well – the answer is obvious.  Canada was a big move for Mom and Dad.  And they did okay.  They did very okay.  They created a family from new friends and old (those that had moved up at the same time as them) and together, they acknowledged the abundance of love and support that they continually received.  (No, of course it wasn’t always plain sailing.  All kinds of battles were fought – and won – in the course of their lives in the new country.)

Interestingly, none of us liked turkey.  Neither my brother or myself go near the bird anymore.  But, damn, my dad’s bird was a moist, tasty sucker.  Dutifully accompanied by rice and peas, callaloo and a host of other reminders of “home”.  A table that celebrated before and now and, of course, nodded towards our future.

Happy Thanksgiving.

I walked right into this one.  I was working on a project with an African/Caribbean theatre company.  My family is from Trinidad.  One of the actors was carefully (and lovingly) explaining to a colleague how to to make a curry (West Indian style).  I interrupted, blurting out (incredibly loudly) – “you don’t know how to make a curry??!” I was answered with – “but I’m not West Indian.” And so, I began to try to crawl out of the hole.  Because, you see, all black people do not know how to make curry.  Same race, different culture.  She was Nigerian.  She did not make curry.  Not part of her food vocabulary.  And of course not.  And I was astounded at myself because I had done that thing that white people do to me – I’d assumed that because she was black (like me)  – well, of course we must cook the same stuff.  My god, I couldn’t stop laughing.  We did manage to come together on the fact that neither of us liked watermelon, but would kill for fried chicken…