My offering for the Thanksgiving feast was the pumpkin pie, cranberries, and green bean casserole. The pumpkin proved to be no problem, thanks to my handy neighborhood American store. Hilarious. They had a whole Thanksgiving display set out for the celebrating ex-pat. I will admit that I also snatched up a can of Cream of Mushroom soup. Oh, yes, it was Campbell’s—you can’t get any more mid-Western than that. I can say that I left the canned turkey gravy and the french fried onions on the shelf though. My mom had already sent me those in a padded envelope. Now that’s love—sending french fried onions through the mail.
In order to complete the casserole, I needed French-cut green beans. I was mystified that I couldn’t find them anywhere. I had to settle for regular ones, but doesn’t it strike you as odd that we are less than twenty miles from France and there are no French-cut green beans? It makes me wonder about the authenticity of said beans. Are they really French? Or cleverly named by some marketing exec to make us think we are eating beans that are slightly more cultured and sophisticated?
The cranberries were no easy find either. Tracy and her mom took it upon themselves to track down the coveted berries. Tracy’s mom, who doesn’t speak French, decided to rely upon one store’s clerks for help locating the much-needed berries. Tracy warned her that the store employees would be of little help, but the woman was determined––she would have cranberries. She began selecting clerks at random and grilling them as to the whereabouts of the cranberry. They gave her the most withering of looks. Then she worked her tried and true Tactic Americana: if the person doesn’t understand, ask louder and slower in English. Before long she was demanding that the clerk––demanding that the whole store––please direct her to the cranberries. A nice random woman couldn’t but overhear the exchanges, and she pointed Tracy’s mom in the direction of a cranberry-carrying grocery store. We gave thanks over our delicious dinner.
