Kitchen Wench

I sometimes cling fervently (maybe even a little irrationally) to certain traditions. One which I particularly lament the loss of is that of a home cooked turkey on Thanksgiving. As of late, it seems that more and more of our dinner is coming not from the homes of my relatives, but from the likes of Byerly’s grocery store, or, better yet, the local Chinese restaurant.

This Thanksgiving, the House of Yue dined on turkey from the House of Wong and House of Wu Chinese restaurants. House of Wong supplied a traditional American-style turkey, while House of Wu prepared a turkey with traditional Chinese seasoning. The House of Wu turkey was greatly favored over House of Wong, which came as little surprise. And that’s when it hit me.

We’re just a bunch of Chinese people trying to awkwardly celebrate an American holiday.

I keep finding myself torn between what I consider stereotypically “traditional” and what actually jives with my relatives—for instance, my aunt eschews pie but asked if we could make some concoction of sticky black rice, coconut milk, shaved ice, and fresh mango that she discovered in the Hong Kong airport a few weeks ago. While this does sound pretty tasty (especially with a side of Chinese turkey), it’s certainly not Thanksgiving in the purest sense of the word. I may not even like pumpkin pie, but shouldn’t there be pumpkin pie at dinner? Like most holidays, whatever the “true meaning” or historical context is subsumed by the meal that brings us all together. What is Thanksgiving without the turkey, cranberries, sweet potatoes, pie, and that disgusting green been casserole with french onions?

As I get older, I’ve realized a few things. This year, I reaffirmed my dislike of pumpkin pie, preferring a slice of Chinese egg custard. I also realized that I’d prefer a good steak to a dry hunk of turkey, but a piece of Beijing roast duck would be even better. Last Thanksgiving I found myself backpacking across China, where I ate so much spicy lamb, grilled corn, and deep fried glutinous pumpkin cakes (the closest I could get to pie) that I was violently sick the rest of the following day. I still find myself fantasizing about that meal, but turkey and gravy has yet to spark any pangs of deep-seated longing. Perhaps tradition is overrated after all.