The numbers were not looking good. It was Friday at 11am and this year's Thanksgiving was in danger of being taken over by foreigners. No, I'm not talking about Pilgrims who were anxious to infect Native Americans with new germs. I'm talking about something slightly more serious here--non-Americans who have never sat and watched 14 straight hours of parade coverage-football marathons while stuffing their faces with turducken (a very sick prospect if you ask me, but click on the link anyhow http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Turducken), pumpkin pie, sweet potatoes, and whatever else doesn't run away from them.
That's right--7 people were coming to dinner and the number of Americans was 2. 2/7 is not good odds if you are trying to have a real Thanksgiving dinner in a middle eastern country where finding cranberry sauce is only slightly easier than establishing a peace treaty. And then my friend Zach called. "I just wanted to wish you a happy Thanksgiving since I know it's your favorite holiday of all time."
He's right, and I was doing my best to bring Thanksgiving to my humble little apartment in Jerusalem and the natives of the land. Since we wouldn't be having a real turkey this year (or a turducken, for that matter), I had invested in a bit of multi-colored construction paper and made place cards for everyone in the shape of turkeys (or my hand, you know the deal--trace your hand, now cut it out and make the thumb the turkey head and so on . . . ). So, Zach was invited (a real "Mer-ken"), and the gap decreased by one.
The number of countries represented at Thanksgiving dinner on Friday was slightly lower than the number on the UN Security Council: United States (Florida, Michigan, and North Carolina), Israel, Norway, United Kingdom, The Netherlands, and Canada.
The cranberry sauce was found and brought by the Dutch ambassador, but unfortunately, the British emissary screwed it up. To be fair, she apologized after the American contingency explained to her that it is absolutely essential that the cranberry sauce maintain its molded can-shape, with the rings visible to the naked eye, and that mashing it for aesthetic appeal wasn't acceptable. The Norwegian (and her American liaison) brought banana nut bread and chocolate cake and a variety of Thanksgiving (and Southern) delights were provided by myself and my Israeli consul general.
Overall, it was a great night. But if you were paying attention, you may have noticed there's a problem with my story. Yep, that's right--we did it on Friday. But you know, maybe the Pilgrims did, too. I mean, when you're cooking a turducken on a spit, it takes a little bit longer . . .
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